3 Books To Know Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Edith Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ “the third one after that” came, they did not dance, but went back to the gallery stairway, seeming to have reached an understanding without any verbal consultation, that this suburb was again the place for them.

      “Well,” said George, coolly, when they were seated, “what did you say your name was?”

      “Morgan.”

      “Funny name!”

      “Everybody else's name always is.”

      “I didn't mean it was really funny,” George explained. “That's just one of my crowd's bits of horsing at college. We always say 'funny name' no matter what it is. I guess we're pretty fresh sometimes; but I knew your name was Morgan because my mother said so downstairs. I meant: what's the rest of it?”

      “Lucy.”

      He was silent.

      “Is 'Lucy' a funny name, too?” she inquired.

      “No. Lucy's very much all right!” he said, and he went so far as to smile. Even his Aunt Fanny admitted that when George smiled “in a certain way” he was charming.

      “Thanks about letting my name be Lucy,” she said.

      “How old are you?” George asked.

      “I don't really know, myself.”

      “What do you mean: you don't really know yourself?”

      “I mean I only know what they tell me. I believe them, of course, but believing isn't really knowing. You believe some certain day is your birthday—at least, I suppose you do—but you don't really know it is because you can't remember.”

      “Look here!” said George. “Do you always talk like this?”

      Miss Lucy Morgan laughed forgivingly, put her young head on one side, like a bird, and responded cheerfully: “I'm willing to learn wisdom. What are you studying in school?”

      “College!”

      “At the university! Yes. What are you studying there?”

      George laughed. “Lot o' useless guff!”

      “Then why don't you study some useful guff?”

      “What do you mean: 'useful'?”

      “Something you'd use later, in your business or profession?”

      George waved his hand impatiently. “I don't expect to go into any 'business or profession.”

      “No?”

      “Certainly not!” George was emphatic, being sincerely annoyed by a suggestion which showed how utterly she failed to comprehend the kind of person he was.

      “Why not?” she asked mildly.

      “Just look at 'em!” he said, almost with bitterness, and he made a gesture presumably intended to indicate the business and professional men now dancing within range of vision. “That's a fine career for a man, isn't it! Lawyers, bankers, politicians! What do they get out of life, I'd like to know! What do they ever know about real things? Where do they ever get?”

      He was so earnest that she was surprised and impressed. Evidently he had deep-seated ambitions, for he seemed to speak with actual emotion of these despised things which were so far beneath his planning for the future. She had a vague, momentary vision of Pitt, at twenty-one, prime minister of England; and she spoke, involuntarily in a lowered voice, with deference:

      “What do you want to be?” she asked.

      George answered promptly.

      “A yachtsman,” he said.

      Chapter VI

      Having thus, in a word, revealed his ambition for a career above courts, marts, and polling booths, George breathed more deeply than usual, and, turning his face from the lovely companion whom he had just made his confidant, gazed out at the dancers with an expression in which there was both sternness and a contempt for the squalid lives of the unyachted Midlanders before him. However, among them, he marked his mother; and his sombre grandeur relaxed momentarily; a more genial light came into his eyes.

      Isabel was dancing with the queer-looking duck; and it was to be noted that the lively gentleman's gait was more sedate than it had been with Miss Fanny Minafer, but not less dexterous and authoritative. He was talking to Isabel as gaily as he had talked to Miss Fanny, though with less laughter, and Isabel listened and answered eagerly: her colour was high and her eyes had a look of delight. She saw George and the beautiful Lucy on the stairway, and nodded to them. George waved his hand vaguely: he had a momentary return of that inexplicable uneasiness and resentment which had troubled him downstairs.

      “How lovely your mother is!” Lucy said

      “I think she is,” he agreed gently.

      “She's the gracefulest woman in that ballroom. She dances like a girl of sixteen.”

      “Most girls of sixteen,” said George, “are bum dancers. Anyhow, I wouldn't dance with one unless I had to.”

      “Well, you'd better dance with your mother! I never saw anybody lovelier. How wonderfully they dance together!”

      “Who?”

      “Your mother and—and the queer-looking duck,” said Lucy. “I'm going to dance with him pretty soon.”

      “I don't care—so long as you don't give him one of the numbers that belong to me.”

      “I'll try to remember,” she said, and thoughtfully lifted to her face the bouquet of violets and lilies, a gesture which George noted without approval.

      “Look here! Who sent you those flowers you keep makin' such a fuss over?”

      “He did.”

      “Who's 'he'?”

      “The queer-looking duck.”

      George feared no such rival; he laughed loudly. “I s'pose he's some old widower!” he said, the object thus described seeming ignominious enough to a person of eighteen, without additional characterization. “Some old widower!”

      Lucy became serious at once. “Yes, he is a widower,” she said. “I ought to have told you before; he's my father.”

      George stopped laughing abruptly. “Well, that's a horse on me. If I'd known he was your father, of course I wouldn't have made fun of him. I'm sorry.”

      “Nobody could make fun of him,” she said quietly.

      “Why couldn't they?”

      “It wouldn't make him funny: it would only make themselves silly.”

      Upon this, George had a gleam of intelligence. “Well, I'm СКАЧАТЬ