3 Books To Know Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Edith Wharton

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      “I know that, mother, of course; but I've seen some of these mechanics, and they're not very satisfactory. For one thing, most of them only pretend to understand the machinery and they let people break down a hundred miles from nowhere, so that about all these fellows are good for is to hunt up a farmer and hire a horse to pull the automobile. And friends of mine at college that've had a good deal of experience tell me the mechanics who do understand the engines have no training at all as servants. They're awful! They say anything they like, and usually speak to members of the family as 'Say!' No, I believe I'd rather wait for September and a tandem, mother.”

      Nevertheless, George sometimes consented to sit in an automobile, while waiting for September, and he frequently went driving in one of Eugene's cars with Lucy and her father. He even allowed himself to be escorted with his mother and Fanny through the growing factory, which was now, as the foreman of the paint shop informed the visitors, “turning out a car and a quarter a day.” George had seldom been more excessively bored, but his mother showed a lively interest in everything, wishing to have all the machinery explained to her. It was Lucy who did most of the explaining, while her father looked on and laughed at the mistakes she made, and Fanny remained in the background with George, exhibiting a bleakness that overmatched his boredom.

      From the factory Eugene took them to lunch at a new restaurant, just opened in the town, a place which surprised Isabel with its metropolitan air, and, though George made fun of it to her, in a whisper, she offered everything the tribute of pleased exclamations; and her gayety helped Eugene's to make the little occasion almost a festive one.

      George's ennui disappeared in spite of himself, and he laughed to see his mother in such spirits. “I didn't know mineral waters could go to a person's head,” he said. “Or perhaps it's this place. It might pay to have a new restaurant opened somewhere in town every time you get the blues.”

      Fanny turned to him with a wan smile. “Oh, she doesn't 'get the blues,' George!” Then she added, as if fearing her remark might be thought unpleasantly significant, “I never knew a person of a more even disposition. I wish I could be like that!” And though the tone of this afterthought was not so enthusiastic as she tried to make it, she succeeded in producing a fairly amiable effect.

      “No,” Isabel said, reverting to George's remark, and overlooking Fanny's. “What makes me laugh so much at nothing is Eugene's factory. Wouldn't anybody be delighted to see an old friend take an idea out of the air like that—an idea that most people laughed at him for—wouldn't any old friend of his be happy to see how he'd made his idea into such a splendid, humming thing as that factory—all shiny steel, clicking and buzzing away, and with all those workmen, such muscled looking men and yet so intelligent looking?”

      “Hear! Hear!” George applauded. “We seem to have a lady orator among us. I hope the waiters won't mind.”

      Isabel laughed, not discouraged. “It's beautiful to see such a thing,” she said. “It makes us all happy, dear old Eugene!”

      And with a brave gesture she stretched out her hand to him across the small table. He took it quickly, giving her a look in which his laughter tried to remain, but vanished before a gratitude threatening to become emotional in spite of him. Isabel, however, turned instantly to Fanny. “Give him your hand, Fanny,” she said gayly; and, as Fanny mechanically obeyed, “There!” Isabel cried. “If brother George were here, Eugene would have his three oldest and best friends congratulating him all at once. We know what brother George thinks about it, though. It's just beautiful, Eugene!”

      Probably if her brother George had been with them at the little table, he would have made known what he thought about herself, for it must inevitably have struck him that she was in the midst of one of those “times” when she looked “exactly fourteen years old.” Lucy served as a proxy for Amberson, perhaps, when she leaned toward George and whispered: “Did you ever see anything so lovely?”

      “As what?” George inquired, not because he misunderstood, but because he wished to prolong the pleasant neighbourliness of whispering.

      “As your mother! Think of her doing that! She's a darling! And papa”—here she imperfectly repressed a tendency to laugh—“papa looks as if he were either going to explode or utter loud sobs!”

      Eugene commanded his features, however, and they resumed their customary apprehensiveness. “I used to write verse,” he said—“if you remember—”

      “Yes,” Isabel interrupted gently. “I remember.”

      “I don't recall that I've written any for twenty years or so,” he continued. “But I'm almost thinking I could do it again, to thank you for making a factory visit into such a kind celebration.”

      “Gracious!” Lucy whispered, giggling. “Aren't they sentimental”

      “People that age always are,” George returned. “They get sentimental over anything at all. Factories or restaurants, it doesn't matter what!”

      And both of them were seized with fits of laughter which they managed to cover under the general movement of departure, as Isabel had risen to go.

      Outside, upon the crowded street, George helped Lucy into his runabout, and drove off, waving triumphantly, and laughing at Eugene who was struggling with the engine of his car, in the tonneau of which Isabel and Fanny had established themselves. “Looks like a hand-organ man grinding away for pennies,” said George, as the runabout turned the corner and into National Avenue. “I'll still take a horse, any day.”

      He was not so cocksure, half an hour later, on an open road, when a siren whistle wailed behind him, and before the sound had died away, Eugene's car, coming from behind with what seemed fairly like one long leap, went by the runabout and dwindled almost instantaneously in perspective, with a lace handkerchief in a black-gloved hand fluttering sweet derision as it was swept onward into minuteness—a mere white speck—and then out of sight.

      George was undoubtedly impressed. “Your Father does know how to drive some,” the dashing exhibition forced him to admit. “Of course Pendennis isn't as young as he was, and I don't care to push him too hard. I wouldn't mind handling one of those machines on the road like that, myself, if that was all there was to it—no cranking to do, or fooling with the engine. Well, I enjoyed part of that lunch quite a lot, Lucy.”

      “The salad?”

      “No. Your whispering to me.”

      “Blarney!”

      George made no response, but checked Pendennis to a walk. Whereupon Lucy protested quickly: “Oh, don't!”

      “Why? Do you want him to trot his legs off?”

      “No, but—”

      “'No, but'—what?”

      She spoke with apparent gravity: “I know when you make him walk it's so you can give all your attention to—to proposing to me again!”

      And as she turned a face of exaggerated color to him, “By the Lord, but you're a little witch!” George cried.

      “George, do let Pendennis trot again!”

      “I won't!”

      She clucked to the horse. “Get up, Pendennis! Trot! Go on! Commence!”

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