 CHAPTER VIII When George regained some measure of his presence of mind, Miss Lucy Morgan's cheek, snowy and cold, was pressing his nose slightly to one side. His right arm was firmly about her neck, and a monstrous amount of her fur boa seemed to mingle with an equally unplausible quantity of snow in his mouth. He was confused but conscious of no objection to any of these juxtapositions. She was apparently uninjured, for she sat up, hatless, her hair down, and said mildly, Good heavens! Though her father had been under his machine when they passed, he was the first to reach them. He threw himself on his knees beside his daughter, but found her already laughing, and was reassured. They're all right, he called to Isabel, who was running toward them, ahead of her brother and fanny-minifer. This snow-banks a feather-bed, nothing the matter with them at all, don't look so pale. Georgie, she gasped, Georgie. Georgie was on his feet, snow all over him. Don't make a fuss, mother, nothing's the matter, that darn silly horse. Sudden tears stood in Isabel's eyes. To see you down underneath, dragging, oh! Then with shaking hands she began to brush the snow from him. Give me a loan, he protested, you'll ruin your gloves, you're getting snow all over you. No, no, she cried, you'll catch cold, you mustn't catch cold. And she continued to brush him. Amberson had brought Lucy's hat. Miss Fanny acted as a lady's maid, and both victims of the accident were presently restored to about their usual appearance and condition of apparel. In fact, encouraged by the two older gentlemen, the entire party, with one exception, decided that the episode was, after all, a merry one, and began to laugh aloud at it. But George was glummer than the December twilight, now swiftly closing in. That darn horse, he said, I wouldn't bother about Pendenis, Georgie, said his uncle. You can send a man out for what's left of the cutter to-morrow, and Pendenis will gallop straight home to Isabel. He'll be there a long while before we will, because all we've got to depend on to get us home is Jean Morgan's broken-down chafing-dish yonder. They were approaching the machine as he spoke, and his friend, again underneath it, heard him. He emerged, smiling. She'll go, he said. What? All aboard. He offered his hand to Isabel. She was smiling but pale, and her eyes, in spite of the smile, kept upon George in a shocked anxiety. Miss Fanny had already mounted to the rear seat, and George, after helping Lucy Morgan climb up beside his aunt, was following. Isabel saw that his shoes were light things of patent leather, and that snow was clinging to them. She made a little rush toward him, and, as one of his feet rested upon the iron step of the machine, and mounting, she began to clean the snow from his shoe with an almost aerial lace handkerchief. You mustn't catch cold, she said. Stop that! George shouted, and furiously withdrew his foot. Then stamped the snow off, she begged, you mustn't ride with wet feet. There not! George roared, thoroughly outraged, for heaven's sake, get in! You're standing in the snow yourself. Get in! Isabel consented, turning to Morgan, whose habitual expression of apprehensiveness was suddenly accentuated. He climbed up after her, George Amberson having gone to the other side. You're the same Isabel I used to know, he said, in a low voice. You're a divinely ridiculous woman. Am I, Eugene? She said, not displeased. Divinely and ridiculous just counterbalance each other, don't they? Plus one and minus one equal nothing, so you mean I'm nothing in particular? No, he answered, tugging at a lover. That doesn't seem to be precisely what I meant. There. This exclamation referred to the subterranean machinery, for dismaying sounds came from beneath the floor, and the vehicle plunged and then rolled noisily forward. Behold! George Amberson exclaimed. She does move. It must be another accident. Accident! Morgan shouted over the din. No! She breathes. She stirs. She seems to feel a thrill of life along her keel. And he began to sing the star-spangled banner. Amberson joined him lustily, and sang on when Morgan stopped. The twilight sky cleared, discovering a round moon already risen, and the musical congressmen hailed this bright presence with the complete text and melody of the Danube River. His nephew behind was gloomy. He had overheard his mother's conversation with the inventor. It seemed curious to him that this Morgan, of whom he had never heard until last night, should be using the name Isabel so easily. And George felt that it was not just the thing for his mother to call Morgan Eugene. The resentment of the previous night came upon George again. Meanwhile, his mother and Morgan continued their talk, but he could no longer hear what they said. The noise of the car and his uncle's songful mood prevented. He marked how animated Isabel seemed. It was not strange to see his mother so gay, but it was strange that a man not of the family should be the cause of her gaiety. And George sat frowning. Fanny Minifer had begun to talk to Lucy. Your father wanted to prove that his horseless carriage would run even in the snow, she said. It really does, too. Of course. It's so interesting. He's been telling us how he's going to change it. He says he's going to have the wheels all made of rubber and blown up with air. I don't understand what he means at all. I should think they'd explode, but Eugene seems to be very confident. He was always very confident, though. It seems so like old times to hear him talk. She became thoughtful, and Lucy turned to George. You tried to swing underneath me and break the fall for me when we went over, she said. I knew you were doing that, and it was nice of you. Wasn't any fall to speak of, he returned brusquely. Couldn't have heard either of us. Still it was friendly of you, and awful quick, too. I'll not forget it. Her voice had a sound of genuineness, very pleasant, and George began to forget his annoyance with her father. This annoyance of his had not been alleviated by the circumstance that neither of the seats of the old sewing machine was designed for three people. But when his neighbour spoke thus gratefully, he no longer minded the crowding. In fact, it pleased him so much that he began to wish the old sewing machine would go even slower. And she had spoken no word of blame for his letting that darned horse get the cutter into a ditch. George presently addressed her hurriedly, almost tremulously, speaking close to her ear. I forgot to tell you something. You're pretty nice. I thought so the first second I saw you last night. I'll come for you to-night and take you to the assembly at the Amberson Hotel. You're going, aren't you? Yes, but I'm going with Papa and the Sharon's. I'll see you there. Looks to me as if you were awfully conventional, George grumbled, and his disappointment was deeper than he was willing to let her see, though she probably did see. Well, we'll dance the cotillion together anyhow. I'm afraid not. I promise Mr. Kinney. What? George's tone was shocked, as at incredible news. Well, you could break that engagement, I guess, if you wanted to. Girls always can get out of things when they want to. Won't you? I don't think so. Why not? Because I promised him several days ago. George gulped and lowered his pride. I don't—oh, look here, I only want to go to that thing tonight to get to see something of you. And if you don't dance the cotillion with me, how can I? I'll only be here two weeks, and the others have got you all the rest of your visit. Won't you do it, please? I couldn't. See here, said the stricken George. If you're going to decline to dance that cotillion with me simply because you've promised a miserable redhead outsider like Fred Kinney, why we might as well quit? Quit what? You know perfectly well what I mean, he said, huskily. I don't. Well, you ought to. But I don't at all. George thoroughly heard, and not a little embittered, expressed himself in a short outburst of laughter. Well, I ought to have seen it. Seen what? That you might turn out to be a girl who would like a fellow of the red-headed Kinney sort. I ought to have seen it from the first. Lucy bore her disgrace lightly. Oh, dancing a cotillion with a person doesn't mean that you like him, but I don't see anything in particular that matter with Mr. Kinney. What is? If you don't see anything that matter with him for yourself, George responded, isily, I don't think pointing it out would help you. You probably wouldn't understand. You might try, she suggested. Of course, I'm a stranger here, and if people have done anything wrong or have something unpleasant about them, I wouldn't have any way of knowing it just at first. If poor Mr. Kinney, I prefer not to discuss it, said George currently. He's an enemy of mine. Why? I prefer not to discuss it. Well, but I prefer not to discuss it. Very well. She began to hum the air of the song which Mr. George Amberson was now discoursing. O moon of my delight that knows no wane, and there was no further conversation on the back seat. They had entered Amberson edition, and the moon of Mr. Amberson's delight was overlaid by a slender gothic filigree, the branches that sprang from the shade trees lining the street. Through the windows of many of the houses, rosy lights were flickering, and silver tinsel and evergreen wreaths, and brilliant little glass globes of silver and wine color could be seen, and glimpses were caught of Christmas trees, with people decking them by firelight, reminders that this was Christmas Eve. The ride-stealers had disappeared from the highway, though now and then over the gasping and howling of the hoarseless carriage there came a shrill jeer from some young passer-by upon the sidewalk. Mr. for heaven's sake, go and get a haas! Get a haas! Get a haas!" The contrivance stopped with a heart-shaking jerk before Isabel's house. The gentleman jumped down, helping Isabel and Fanny to descend. There were friendly leave-takings, and one that was not precisely friendly. It's au revoir till to-night, isn't it? Lucy asked, laughing. Good afternoon, said George, and he did not wait, as his relatives did, to see the old sewing-machines start briskly down the street toward the Sharon's. Its lighter load consisting now of only Mr. Morgan and his daughter. George went into the house at once. He found his father reading the evening paper in the library. Where are your mother and your aunt Fanny, Mr. Miniver inquired, not looking up? They're coming, said his son, and casting himself heavily into a chair stared at the fire. His prediction was verified a few moments later. The two ladies came in cheerfully, unfastening their fur cloaks. It's all right, Georgie, said Isabel. Your Uncle George called to us that Penn Dennis got home safely. Put your shoes close to the fire-deer, or else go and change them. She went to her husband and padded him lightly on the shoulder, an action which George watched with sombre moodiness. You might dress before long, she suggested. We're all going to the assembly after dinner, aren't we? Brother George said he would go with us. Look here, said George abruptly. How about this man Morgan and his old sewing-machine? Doesn't he want to get Grandfather to put money into it? Isn't he trying to work Uncle George for that? Isn't that what he's up to? It was Miss Fanny who responded. You little silly, she cried, with surprising sharpness. What on earth are you talking about? Eugene Morgan is perfectly able to finance his own inventions these days. I'll bet he borrows money off Uncle George, the nephew insisted. Isabel looked at him with grave perplexity. Why do you say such a thing, George? She asked. He strikes me as that sort of man, he answered, doggedly. Isn't he, Father? Miniver set down his paper for the moment. He was a fairly wild young fellow twenty years ago, he said, glancing at his wife, absently. He was like you in one thing, Georgie. He spent too much money. Only he didn't have any mother to get money out of a grandfather for him, so he was usually in debt. But I believe I've heard he's done fairly well of late years. No, I can't say I think he's a swindler, and I doubt if he needs anybody else's money to back his horseless carriage. Well, what's he brought the old thing here for, then? People that own elephants don't take their elephants around with them when they go visiting. What's he got it here for? I'm sure I don't know, said Mr. Miniver, resuming his paper. You might ask him. Isabel laughed and patted her husband's shoulder again. Aren't you going to dress? Aren't we all going to the dance? He groaned faintly. Aren't your brother and Georgie escorts enough for you and Fanny? Wouldn't you enjoy it at all? You know I don't. Isabel let her hand remain upon his shoulder a moment longer. She stood behind him, looking into the fire, and George, watching her broodingly, thought there was more colour in her face than the reflection of the flames accounted for. Well, then, she said, indulgently, stay at home and be happy. We won't urge you if you'd really rather not. I really wouldn't, he said, contentedly. Half an hour later Georgie was passing through the upper hall in a bathrobe stage of preparation for the evening's gayities, when he encountered his Aunt Fanny. He stopped her. Look here, he said. What in the world is the matter with you, she demanded, regarding him with little amiability? You look as if you were rehearsing for a villain and a play. Do change your expression. His expression gave no sign of yielding to the request. On the contrary, its somberness deepened. I suppose you don't know why Father doesn't want to go to-night, he said solemnly. You're his only sister, and yet you don't know. He never wants to go anywhere that I ever heard of, said Fanny. What is the matter with you? He doesn't want to go, because he doesn't like this man Morgan. Good gracious, said Fanny, impatiently. Eugene Morgan isn't in your father's thoughts at all, one way or the other. Why should he be? Georg hesitated. Well, it strikes me. Look here, what makes you and everybody so excited over him? Excited, she jeered. Can't people be glad to see an old friend without silly children like you having to make it to do about it? I've just been in your mother's room, suggesting that she might give a little dinner for them. For who? For whom, Georgie? For Mr. Morgan and his daughter. Look here, Georg said quickly. Don't do that. Mother mustn't do that. It wouldn't look well. Wouldn't look well, Fanny mocked him, and her suppressed vehemence betrayed a surprising acerbity. See here, Georgie Miniver, I suggest that you just march straight on into your room and finish your dressing. Sometimes you say things that show that you have a pretty mean little mind. George was so astounded by this outburst that his indignation was delayed by his curiosity. Well, what upsets you this way? he inquired. I know what you mean, she said, her voice still lowered, but not decreasing in sharpness. You're trying to insinuate that I'd get your mother to invite Eugene Morgan here on my account, because he's a widower. I am, George gasped, nonplussed. I'm trying to insinuate that you're setting your cap at him and getting mother to help you. Is that what you mean? What a doubt that was what Miss Fanny meant. She gave him a white-hot look. You attend to your own affairs, she whispered fiercely and swept away. George, dumbfounded, returned to his room for meditation. He had lived for years in the same house with his aunt Fanny, and it now appeared that during all those years he had been thus intimately associated with a total stranger. Never before had he met the passionate lady with whom he had just held a conversation in the hall. So she wanted to get married, and wanted George's mother to help her with this horseless carriage widower. Well, I will be shot, he muttered aloud. I will, I will certainly be shot. And he began to laugh, Lord Almighty. But presently, at the thought of the horseless carriage widower's daughter, his grimness returned, and he resolved upon a line of conduct for the evening. He would nod to her carelessly when he first saw her, and after that he would notice her no more. He would not dance with her. He would not favour her in the Cattilian. He would not go near her. He descended to dinner upon the third urgent summons of a coloured butler, having spent two hours dressing, and rehearsing. End of Chapter 8 CHAPTER IX The Honourable George Amberson was a congressman who led Cattilians. The sort of congressmen in Amberson would be. He did it negligently to-night, yet with infallible dexterity, now and then glancing humorously at the spectators, people of his own age. They were seated in a tropical grove at one end of the room, whether they had retired at the beginning of the Cattilian, which they surrendered entirely to the twenties and the late teens. And here, grouped with that stately pair, Sidney and Amelia Amberson sat Isabelle with Fanny, while Eugene Morgan appeared to bestow an amiable devotion impartially upon the three sisters-in-law. Fanny watched his face eagerly, laughing at everything he said. Amelia smiled blandly, but rather because of graciousness, than because of interest. While Isabelle, looking out at the dancers, rhythmically moved a great fan of blue ostrich feathers, listened to Eugene thoughtfully, yet all the while kept her shining eyes on Georgie. Georgie had carried out his rehearsed projects with precision. He had given Miss Morgan and Knott studied into perfection during his lengthy toilet before dinner. Oh, yes, I do seem to remember that curious little outsider, this Knott seemed to say. Thereafter all cognizance of her evaporated. The curious little outsider was permitted no further existence worth the struggle. Nevertheless she flashed in the corner of his eye too often. He was aware of her dancing demurely, and of her viciously flirtatious habit of never looking up at her partner, but keeping her eyes concealed beneath downcast lashes. And he had over-sufficient consciousness of her between the dances, though it was not possible to see her at these times, even if he had cared to look frankly in her direction. She was invisible in a thicket of young dress-coats. The black thicket moved as she moved, and her location was hatefully apparent, even if he had not heard her voice laughing from the thicket. It was annoying how her voice, though never loud, pursued him. No matter how vociferous were other voices, all about, he seemed unable to prevent himself from constantly recognizing hers. It had a quaver in it, not pathetic, rather humorous than pathetic, a quality which annoyed him to the point of rage because it was so difficult to get away from. She seemed to be having a wonderful time. An unbearable soreness accumulated in his chest. His dislike of the girl and her conduct increased until he thought of leaving this sickening assembly and going home to bed. That would show her. But just then he heard her laughing and decided it wouldn't show her, so he remained. When the young couples seated themselves in chairs against the walls, round three sides of the room for the coutillion, George joined a brazen-faced group clustering about the doorway, youths with no partners, yet eligible to be called out and favored. He marked that his uncle placed the infernal Kinney and Miss Morgan as the leading couple in the first chairs at the head of the line upon the leader's right. And this disloyalty on the part of Uncle George was inexcusable, for in the family circle the nephew had often expressed his opinion of Fred Kinney. In his bitterness George uttered a significant monosyllable. The music flourished whereupon Mr. Kinney, Miss Morgan, and six of their neighbours rose and waltzed knowingly. Mr. Amberson's whistle blew, then the eight young people went to the favour-table, and were given toys and trinkets wherewith to delight the new partners that was now their privilege to select. Around the walls the seated non-participants in this ceremony looked rather conscious, some chattered, endeavouring not to appear expectant. Some tried not to look wistful, and others were frankly solemn. It was a trying moment, and whoever secured a favour this very first shot might consider the poor tents happy for a successful evening. Holding their twinkling Jew-jaws in their hands, those about to bestow honour came toward the seated lines where expressions became feverish. Two of the approaching girls seemed to wander not finding a predetermined object in sight, and these two were Janie Sharon and her cousin Lucy. At this George Amberson Minifer, conceiving that he had little to anticipate from either, turned a proud back upon the room, and affected to converse with his friend Mr. Charlie Johnson. The next moment a quick little figure intervened between the two. It was Lucy, gaily offering a silver sleigh-bell decked with white ribbon. I almost couldn't find you, she cried. George stared, took her hand, led her forth in silence, danced with her. She seemed content not to talk, but as the whistle blew signalling that this episode was concluded, and he conducted her to her seat, she lifted the little bell toward him. You haven't taken your favour, you're supposed to pin it on your coat, she said. Don't you want it? If you insist, said George, stiffly, and he bowed her into her chair, then turned and walked away, dropping the sleigh-bell hotly into his trouser pocket. The figure proceeded to its conclusion, and George was given other sleigh-bells, which he easily consented to wear upon his lapel. But as the next figure began, he strolled with a bored air to the tropical grove where sat his elders, and seated himself beside his Uncle Sidney. His mother leaned across Miss Fanny, raising her voice over the music to speak to him. Georgey, nobody will be able to see you here. You'll not be favoured. You ought to be where you can dance. Don't care to, he returned. Bore. You ought. She stopped and laughed, waving her fan to direct his attention behind him. Look over your shoulder. He turned and discovered Miss Lucy Morgan in the act of offering him a purple toy balloon. I found you, she laughed. Georgey was startled. Well, he said. Would you rather sit it out? Lucy asked quickly, as he did not move. I don't care to dance, if you— No, he said, brising. It would be better to dance. His tone was solemn, and solemnly he departed with her from the grove. Solemly he danced with her. Four times, with not the slightest encouragement, she brought him a favour. Four times in succession. When the fourth came, look here, said George, huskily. You're going to keep this up all night. What do you mean by it? For an instant she seemed confused. That's what coutillions are for, aren't they? She murmured. What do you mean, what therefore? So that a girl can dance with the person she wants to. George's huskiness increased. Well, do you mean you want to dance with me all the time? All evening? Well, this much of it, evidently, she laughed. Is it because you thought I tried to keep you from getting hurt this afternoon when we upset? She shook her head. Was it because you want to even things up for making me angry? I mean, for hurting my feelings on the way home. With her eyes averted, for girls of nineteen can be as shy as boys sometimes, she said, well, you only got angry because I wouldn't dance the coutillion with you. I didn't feel terribly hurt with you for getting angry about that. Was there any other reason? Did my telling you I liked you have anything to do with it? She looked up gently, and as George met her eyes, something exquisitely touching, yet clearly delightful, gave him a catch in the throat. She looked instantly away, and turning ran out from the palm grove where they stood to the dancing floor. Come on, she cried, let's dance. He followed her. See here, I, I, he stammered. You mean, do you? No, no, she laughed. Let's dance. He put his arm around her almost tremulously, and they began to waltz. It was a happy dance for both of them. Christmas day is the children's, but the holidays are youth's dancing time. The holidays belong to the early twenties and the teens, home from school and college. These years possess the holidays for a little while, then possess them only in smiling, wistful memories of holly and twinkling lights and dance music and charming faces all aglow. It is the liveliest time in life, the happiest of the irresponsible times in life. Mothers echo its happiness. Nothing is like a mother who has a son home from college, except another mother with a son home from college. Bloom does actually come upon these mothers. It is a visible thing, and they run like girls, walk like athletes, laugh like sycophants. Yet they give up their sons to the daughters of other mothers, and find it proud rapture enough to be allowed to sit and watch. Thus Isabel watched George and Lucy dancing, as together they danced away the holidays of that year into the past. They seemed to get along better than they did at first, those two children, Fanny Miniver said, sitting beside her at the Sharon's Dance a week after the assembly. They seemed to be always having little quarrels of some sort at first, at least George did. He seemed to be continually pecking at that lovely dainty little Lucy and being cross with her over nothing. Pecking Isabel laughed. What a word to use about Georgie. I think I never do a more angelically amiable disposition in my life. Miss Fanny echoed her sister-in-law's laugh, but it was a rueful echo, and not sweet. He's amiable to you, she said. That's all the sight of him you ever happened to see. And why wouldn't he be amiable to anybody that simply fell down and worshiped him every minute of her life? Most of us would. Isn't he worth worshiping? Just look at him. Isn't he charming with Lucy? See how hard he ran to get it when she dropped her handkerchief back there. Oh, I'm not going to argue with you about George, said Miss Fanny. I'm fond of him, for that matter. He can be charming, and he's certainly stunning looking, if only— Let the if only go, dear, Isabel suggested, good-naturedly. Let's talk about that dinner that you thought I should— I, Miss Fanny interrupted quickly. Didn't you want to give it yourself? Indeed I did, my dear, said Isabel heartily. I only meant that, unless you had proposed it, perhaps I wouldn't. But here Eugene came for her to dance, and she left the sentence uncompleted. Holiday dances can be happy for youth renewed, as well as for youth in the bud. And yet it was not with the air of a rival that Miss Fanny watched her brother's wife dancing with the widower. Fanny's eyes narrowed a little, but only as if her mind engaged in a hopeful calculation. She looked pleased. End of CHAPTER X A few days after George's return to the university, it became evident that not quite everybody had gazed with complete benevolence upon the various young collegians at their holiday sports. The Sunday edition of the principal morning paper even expressed some bitterness under the heading, Gilded Youths of the Fin de siècle. This was considered the knowing phrase of the time, especially for Sunday supplements. And there is no doubt that from certain references in this bit of writing some people drew the conclusion that Mr. George Amberson Minifer had not yet got his comeuppance, a postponement still irritating. Undeniably Fanny Minifer was one of the people who drew this conclusion, for she cut the article out and enclosed it in a letter to her nephew, having written on the border of the clipping, I wonder whom it can mean. George read part of it. We debate sometimes what is to be the future of this nation when we think that in a few years public affairs may be in the hands of the Fin de siècle Gilded Youths we see about us during the Christmas holidays. Each phoppery, such luxury, such insolence, was surely never practiced by the scented overbearing patricians of the Palatine, even in Rome's most decadent epoch. In all the wild orgy of wastefulness and luxury with which the nineteenth century reaches its close, the Gilded Youth has been surely the worst symptom. With his heirs of young malored, his fast horses, his gold and silver cigarette cases, his clothes from a New York tailor, his recklessness of money showered upon him by indulgent mothers or doting grandfathers, he respects nothing and nobody. He is blasé, if you please. Watch him at a social function, how condescendingly he deigns to select a partner for the popular waltz or two-step, how carelessly he shoulders older people out of his way, with what a blank stare he returns the salutation of some old acquaintance whom he may choose in his royal whim to forget. The unpleasant part of all this is that the young women he so condescendingly selects his partners for the dance greet him with seeming rapture, though in their hearts they must feel humiliated by his languid hauteur, and many older people beam upon him almost fawningly if he unbends so far as to throw them a careless, disdainful word. One wonders what has come over the new generation. Of such as these the Republic was not made. Let us pray that the future of our country is not in the hands of these Fendisiakla-guilded youths, but rather in the calloused palms of young men yet unknown, laboring upon the farms of the land. When we compare the young manhood of Abraham Lincoln with the specimens we are now producing, we see too well that it bodes ill for the twentieth century. George yawned and tossed the clipping into his waist-basket, wondering why his aunt thought such dull nonsense worth the sending. As for her insinuation, penciled upon the border, he supposed she meant a joke, a supposition which neither surprised him nor altered his lifelong opinion of her wit. He read her letter with more interest. The dinner your mother gave for the Morgans was a lovely affair. It was last Monday evening, just ten days after you left. It was peculiarly appropriate that your mother should give this dinner, because her brother George, your uncle, was Mr. Morgans most intimate friend before he left here a number of years ago, and it was a pleasant occasion for the formal announcement of some news which you heard from Lucy Morgan before you returned to college. At least she told me she had told you the night before you left that her father had decided to return here to live. It was appropriate that your mother herself, an old friend, should assemble a representative selection of Mr. Morgans' old friends around him at such a time. He was in great spirits and most entertaining. As your time was so charmingly taken up during your visit home with a younger member of his family, you probably overlooked opportunities of hearing him talk and do not know what an interesting man he can be. He will soon begin to build his factory here for the manufacturer of automobiles, which he says is a term he prefers to horseless carriages. Your uncle George told me he would like to invest in this factory, as George thinks there is a future for automobiles. Perhaps not for general use, but as an interesting novelty, which people with sufficient means would like to own for their amusement and for the sake of variety. However, he said Mr. Morgan laughingly declined his offer, as Mr. M. was fully able to finance this venture, though not starting in a very large way. Your uncle said other people are manufacturing automobiles in different parts of the country with success. Your father is not very well, though he is not actually ill, and the doctor tells him he ought not to be so much at his office, as the long years of application indoors with no exercise are beginning to affect him unfavorably. But I believe your father would rather die if he had to give up his work, which is all that has ever interested him outside of his family. I never could understand it. Mr. Morgan took your mother and me with Lucy to see Majesca in Twelfth Night, yesterday evening, and Lucy said she thought the Duke looked rather like you, only much more democratic in his manner. I suppose you will think I have written a great deal about the Morgans in this letter, but I thought you would be interested because of your interest in a younger member of his family, hoping that you are finding college still as attractive as ever. Affectionately, Aunt Fanny. George read one sentence in this letter several times. Then he dropped the missive in his waist-basket to join the clipping and strolled down the corridor of his dormitory to borrow a copy of Twelfth Night. Having secured one, he returned to his study and refreshed his memory of the play, but received no enlightenment that enabled him to comprehend Lucy's strange remark. However, he found himself impelled in the direction of correspondence and presently wrote a letter, not a reply to his Aunt Fanny. Dear Lucy, no doubt you will be surprised at hearing from me so soon again, especially as this makes two an answer to the one received from you since getting back to the old place. I hear you have been making comments about me at the theatre, that some actor was more democratic in his manners than I am, which I do not understand. You know my theory of life, because I explained it to you on our first drive together, when I told you I would not talk to everybody about things I feel like the way I spoke to you of my theory of life. I believe those who were able should have a true theory of life, and I developed my theory of life long, long ago. Well, here I sit, smoking my faithful briar pipe, indulging in the fragrance of my tobacco, as I look out on the campus from my many-pained window, and things are different with me, from the way they were way back in freshman year. I can see now how boyish in many ways I was then. I believe what has changed me as much as anything was my visit home at the time I met you. So I sit here with my faithful briar, and dream the old dreams over, as it were, dreaming of the waltzes we waltzed together, and of that last night before we parted, and you told me the good news that you were going to live there, and I would find my friend waiting for me, when I got home next summer. I will be glad my friend will be waiting for me. I am not capable of friendship except for the very few, and, looking back over my life, I remember there were times when I doubted if I could feel a great friendship for anybody, especially girls. I do not take a great interest in many people, as you know, for I find most of them shallow. Here in the old place I do not believe in being Hale fellow well met, with every Tom, Dick, and Harry, just because he happens to be a classmate, any more than I do at home, where I have always been careful who I was seen with, largely on account of the family, but also because my disposition, ever since my boyhood, has been to encourage real intimacy from but the few. What are you reading now? I have finished both Henry Esmond and the Virginians. I like Thackeray because he is not trashy, and because he writes principally of nice people. My theory of literature is an author who does not indulge in trashiness, writes about people you could introduce in your own home. I agree with my Uncle Sidney, as I once heard him say he did not care to read a book or go to a play about people he would not care to meet at his own dinner table. I believe we should live by certain standards and ideals, as you know, from my telling you, my theory of life. Well, a letter is no place for deep discussions, so I will not go into the subject. From several letters from my mother, and one from Aunt Fanny, I hear you were seeing a good deal of the family since I left. I hope sometimes you think of the member who was absent. I got a silver frame for your photograph in New York, and I keep it on my desk. It is the only girl's photograph I ever took the trouble to have framed, though, as I told you frankly, I have had any number of other girl's photographs, yet all were only passing fancies. And often times I have questioned, in years past, if I was capable of much friendship toward the feminine sex, which I usually found shallow until our own friendship began. When I look at your photograph, I say to myself, at last, at last, here is one that will not prove shallow. My faithful briar has gone out. I will have to rise and fill it. Then once more, in the fragrance of my Lady Nicotine, I will sit and dream the old dreams over, and think, too, of the true friend at home awaiting my return in June for the summer vacation. Friend, this is from your friend, G-A-M. George's anticipations were not disappointed. When he came home in June, his friend was awaiting him. At least she was so pleased to see him again, that for a few minutes after their first encounter she was a little breathless, and a great deal glowing, and quiet with all. Their sentimental friendship continued, though sometimes he was irritated by her making it less sentimental than he did, and sometimes by what he called her air of superiority. Her air was usually, in truth, that of a fawned but amused older sister, and George did not believe such an attitude was warranted by her eight months of seniority. Lucy and her father were living at the Amberson Hotel while Morgan got his small machine-shops built in a western outskirt of the town, and George grumbled about the shabbiness and the old-fashioned look of the hotel, though it was still the best in the place, of course. He remonstrated with his grandfather, declaring that the whole Amberson estate would be getting run down and out at heel if things weren't taken in hand pretty soon. He urged the general need of rebuilding, renovating, varnishing, and lawsuits. But the major, declining to hear him out, interrupted querilously, saying that he had enough to bother him without any advice from George, and retired to his library, going so far as to lock the door audibly. George muttered, shaking his head, and he thought sadly that the major had not long to live. However, this surmise depressed him for only a moment or so. Of course people couldn't be expected to live forever, and it would be a good thing to have someone in charge of the estate who wouldn't let it get to looking so rusty that riff-raff dared to make fun of it. For George had lately undergone the annoyance of calling upon the Morgans and the rather stuffy red valours and gilt parlor of their apartment at the hotel, one evening when Mr. Frederick Kinney was also a caller, and Mr. Kinney had not been tactful. In fact, though he adopted a humorous tone of voice in expressing his sympathy for people who, through the city's poverty and hotels, were obliged to stay at the Amberson, Mr. Kinney's intention was interpreted by the other visitor as not at all humorous, but on the contrary, personal and defensive. George rose abruptly, his face the colour of wrath. Good night, Miss Morgan. Good night, Mr. Morgan, he said. I shall take pleasure in calling at some other time when a more courteous sort of people may be present. Look here! The hot-headed Fred burst out. Don't you try to make me out a bore, George Minifer? I wasn't hinting anything at you. I simply forgot all about your grandfather owning this old building. Don't you try to put me in the light of a bore? I won't." But George walked out in the very course of this vehement protest, and it was necessarily left unfinished. Mr. Kinney remained only a few moments after George's departure, and as the door closed upon him the distressed Lucy turned to her father. She was plaintively surprised to find him in a condition of immoderate laughter. I didn't—I didn't think I could hold out, he gasped, after choking until tears came to his eyes, felt blindly for the chair from which he had risen to wish Mr. Kinney an indistinct good night. His hand found the arm of the chair and he collapsed feebly and sat uttering incoherent sounds. Papa! It brings things back so, he managed to explain. This very Fred Kinney's father and young George's father, Wilbur Minifer, used to do just such things when they were at that age, and for that matter so did George Amberson and I and all the rest of us. And in spite of his exhaustion he began to imitate. Don't you try to put me in the light of a bore? I shall take pleasure in calling at some time when a more courteous sort of people. He was unable to go on. There was a mirth for every age, and Lucy failed to comprehend her father's, but tolerated it a little ruefully. Papa! I think they were shocking. Weren't they awful? Just boys, he moaned, wiping his eyes. But Lucy could not smile at all. She was beginning to look indignant. I can forgive that poor Fred Kinney, she said. He's just blundering. But George! Oh! George behaved outrageously. It's a difficult age, her father observed. His calmness somewhat restored. Girls don't seem to have to pass through it quite as boys do, or their savoir-faire is instinctive or something. And he gave away to a return of his convulsion. She came and sat upon the arm of his chair. Papa! Why should George behave like that? He's sensitive. Rather! But why is he? He does anything he likes to without any regard for what people think. Then why should he mind so furiously when the least little thing reflects upon him or on anything or anybody connected with him? Eugene padded her hand. That is one of the greatest puzzles of human vanity, dear, and I don't pretend to know the answer. In all my life the most arrogant people that I've known have been the most sensitive. The people who have done the most in contempt of other people's opinion, and who consider themselves the highest above it, have been the most furious if it went against them. Arrogant and domineering people can't stand the least, lightest, faintest breath of criticism. It just kills them. Papa! Do you think George is terribly arrogant and domineering? Oh! He's still only a boy, said Eugene, consolingly. There's plenty of fine stuff in him. Can't help but be, because he's Isabelle Amberson's son. Lucy stroked his hair, which was still almost as dark as her own. You liked her pretty well once, I guess, Papa. I do still, he said quietly. She's lovely. Lovely. Papa! She paused, and then continued. I wonder sometimes. What? I wonder just how she happened to marry Mr. Minifer. Oh! Minifer's all right, said Eugene. He's a quiet sort of man, but he's a good man, and a kind man. He always was, and those things count. But in a way—well, I've heard people say there isn't anything to him at all, except business and saving money. Miss Fanny Minifer herself told me that everything George and his mother have of their own, that is, just to spend as they like. She said it has always come from Major Amberson. Thrift, her ratio, said Eugene lightly. Thrift is an inheritance, and a common enough one here. The people who settled the country had to save, so making and saving were taught as virtues, and the people, to the third generation, haven't found out that making and saving are only the means to an end. Minifer doesn't believe in money being spent. He believes God made it to be invested and saved. But George isn't saving. He's reckless, even if he is arrogant and conceited and bad-tempered. He is awfully generous. Oh! He's an Amberson! said her father. The Ambersons aren't saving. They're too much the other way, most of them. I don't think I should have called George bad-tempered, Lucy said, thoughtfully. I don't think he is. Only when he's cross about something, Morgan suggested, with a semblance of sympathetic gravity. Yes, she said, brightly, not perceiving that his intention was humorous. All the rest of the time he's really very amiable. Of course he's much more a perfect child the whole time than he realizes. He certainly behaved awfully to-night. She jumped up, her indignation returning. He did indeed, and it won't do to encourage him in it. I think he'll find me pretty cool for a week or so. We're upon her father suffered a renewal of his attack of uproarious laughter. End of CHAPTER X In the matter of coolness George met Lucy upon her own predetermined ground. In fact he was there first, and at their next encounter proved loftier and more formal than she did. Their estrangement lasted three weeks, and then disappeared without any preliminary treaty. It had worn itself out, and they forgot it. At times, however, George found other disturbances to their friendship. Lucy was too much the village bell, he complained, and took a satiric attitude toward his competitors, referring to them as her local swains and bumpkins, sulking for an afternoon when she reminded him that he too was at least local. She was a bell with older people as well. Bill and Fanny were continually taking her driving, bringing her home with them to lunch or dinner, and making a hundred little engagements with her. And the Major had taken a great fancy to her, insisting upon her presence and her father's at the Amberson family dinner at the mansion every Sunday evening. She knew how to flirt with old people, he said, as she sat next to him at the table on one of those Sunday occasions. And he had always liked her father, even when Eugene was a terror long ago. Oh, yes he was, the Major laughed when she remonstrated. He came up here with my son George and some others for a serenade one night, and Eugene stepped into a bass fiddle and the poor musicians just gave up. I had a pretty half-hour getting my son George upstairs, I remember. It was the last time Eugene ever touched a drop, but he touched plenty before that, young lady, and he daren't deny it. Well, well, there's another thing that's changed—hardly anybody drinks nowadays. Perhaps it's just as well, but things used to be livelier. That serenade was just before Isabelle was married. And don't you fret, Miss Lucy, your father remembers it well enough. The old gentleman burst into laughter and shook his finger at Eugene across the table. The fact is—the Major went on, hilariously—I believe if Eugene hadn't broken that bass fiddle and given himself away, Isabelle would never have taken Wilbur. I shouldn't be surprised if that was about all the reason that Wilbur got her. What do you think, Wilbur? I shouldn't be surprised, said Wilbur, placidly. If your notion is right, I'm glad Eugene broke the fiddle. He was giving me a hard run. The Major always drank three glasses of champagne at his Sunday dinner, and he was finishing the third. What do you say about it, Isabelle? Pahejov, he cried, pounding the table. She's blushing. Isabelle did blush, but she laughed. Who wouldn't blush, she cried, and her sister-in-law came to her assistance. The important thing, said Fanny, jovially, is that Wilbur did get her, and not only got her, but kept her. Eugene was as pink as Isabelle, but he laughed without any sign of embarrassment other than his heightened colour. There's another important thing, that is, for me, he said. It's the only thing that makes me forgive that bass fiddle for getting in the way. What is it? The Major asked. Lucy, said Morgan, gently. Isabelle gave him a quick glance, all warm approval, and there was a murmur of friendliness around the table. George was not one of those who joined in this applause. He considered his grandfather's nonsense indelicate, even for second childhood, and he thought that the sooner the subject was dropped, the better. However, he had only a slight recurrence of the resentment which had assailed him during the winter at every sign of his mother's interest in Morgan. Though he was still ashamed of his aunt sometimes, when it seemed to him that Fanny was almost publicly throwing himself at the widower's head, Fanny and he had one or two arguments in which her fierceness again astonished and amused him. You drop your criticisms of your relatives, she bade him, hotly one day, and begin thinking a little about your own behaviour. You say people will talk about my merely being pleasant to an old friend. What do I care how they talk? I guess if people are talking about anybody in this family, they're talking about the impertinent little snippet that has in any respect for anything, and doesn't even know enough to attend to his own affairs. Snippet, Aunt Fanny, George laughed. How elegant and little snippet when I'm over five feet eleven! I said it, she snapped, departing. I don't see how Lucy can stand you. You'd make an amiable stepmother-in-law, he called after her. I'll be careful about proposing to Lucy. These were but roughish spods in a summer that glided by evenly and quickly enough, for the most part, and at the end seemed to fly. On the last night before George went back to be a junior, his mother asked him confidently if it had not been a happy summer. He hadn't thought about it, he answered. I suppose so, why? I just thought it would be nice to hear you say so, she said, smiling. I mean, it's pleasant for people of my age to know that people of your age realize they're happy. People of your age, he repeated, you know you don't look precisely like an old woman, mother. Not precisely. No, she said, and I suppose I feel about as young as you do inside, but it won't be many years before I begin to look old. It does come. She sighed, still smiling. It seemed to me that it must have been a happy summer for you, a real summer of roses and wine, without the wine perhaps. Gather ye roses while ye may, or was it prim roses? Time does really fly, or perhaps it's more like the sky and the smoke. George was puzzled. What do you mean time being like the sky and the smoke? I mean the things that we have and that we think are so solid, they're like smoke, and time is like the sky that the smoke disappears into. You know how a wreath of smoke goes up from a chimney and seems all thick and black and busy against the sky, as if it were going to do such important things and last forever, and you see it getting thinner and thinner, and then in just a little while it isn't there at all. Nothing is left but the sky, and the sky just keeps on being the same forever. It strikes me you're getting mixed up, said George cheerfully. I don't see much resemblance between time and the sky, or between things and smoke wreaths, but I do see one reason you like Lucy Morgan so much. She talks that same kind of wistful, moony way sometimes. I don't mean to say I mind it, neither of you, because I rather like to listen to it, and you've got a very good voice, mother, it's nice to listen to, no matter how much smoke and sky and so on you talk. So was Lucy's for that matter, and I see why you're congenial. She talks that way to her father, too, and he's right there with the same kind of guff. Well, it's all right with me. He laughed, teasingly, and allowed her to retain his hand, which she had fondly seized. I've got plenty to think about when people drool along. She pressed his hand to her cheek, and a tiny tear made a warm streak across one of his knuckles. For heaven's sake, he said, what's the matter? Isn't everything all right? You're going away. Well, I'm coming back, don't you suppose? Is that all that worries you? She cheered up and smiled again, but sugar-head. I never can bear to see you go. That's the most of it. I'm a little bothered about your father, too. Why? It seems to me he looks so badly. Everybody thinks so. What nonsense! George laughed. He's been looking that way all summer. He isn't much different from the way he's looked all his life that I can see. What's the matter with him? He never talks much about his business to me, but I think he's been worrying about some investments he made last year. I think his worry has affected his health. What investments? George demanded. He hasn't gone into Mr. Morgan's automobile concern, has he? No. Isabelle smiled. The automobile concern is all you, Jeans, and it's so small I understand it's hardly taken anything. No. Your father has always prided himself on making only the most absolutely safe investments. Two or three years ago he and your uncle George both put a great deal, pretty much everything they could get together, I think, into the stock of rolling mills, some friends of theirs owned. And I'm afraid the mills haven't been doing very well. What of that? Father needn't worry. You and I could take care of him the rest of his life on what grandfather—of course, she agreed. But your father has always lived so for his business and taken such a pride in his sound investments. It's a passion with him. I—tch, he needn't worry. You tell him we'll look after him. We'll build him a little stone bank in the backyard if he busts up, and he can go and put his pennies in it every morning. That'll keep him just as happy as he ever was. He kissed her. Good night. I'm going to tell Lucy good-bye, now don't sit up for me." She walked to the front gate with him, still holding his hand, and he told her again not to sit up for him. Yes, I will, she laughed. You won't be very late. Well, it's my last night. But I know Lucy, and she knows I want to see you, too, your last night. You'll see. She'll send you home promptly at eleven. But she was mistaken. Lucy sent him home promptly at ten. CHAPTER XII Isabelle's uneasiness about her husband's health, sometimes reflected in her letters to George during the winter that followed, had not been alleviated when the accredited senior returned for his next summer vacation, and she confided to him, in his room, soon after his arrival, that something the doctor had said to her lately had made her more uneasy than ever. Still worrying over his rolling mills' investments, George asked, not seriously impressed. I'm afraid it's past that stage from what Dr. Rainey says. His worries only aggravate his condition now. Dr. Rainey says we ought to get him away. Well, let's do it, then. He won't go. He's a man awfully set in his ways, that's true, said George. I don't think there's anything much to matter with him, though, and he looks just the same to me. Have you seen Lucy lately? How is she? Hasn't she written you? Oh, about once a month, he said, carelessly. Never says much about herself. How's she look? She looks... pretty, said Isabelle. I suppose she wrote you that they've moved. Yes, I've got her address. She said they were building. They did. It's all finished, and they've been in it for about a month. Lucy is so capable, she keeps the house exquisitely. It's small, but oh, such a pretty little house. Well, that's fortunate, George said. One thing I've always felt they didn't know a great deal about is architecture. Don't they? asked Isabelle, surprised. Anyhow, their house is charming. It's way out beyond the end of Amherst and Boulevard. It's quite near that big white house with a grey-green roof that somebody built out there a year or so ago. There are any number of houses going up out that way, and the trolley line runs within a block of them now, up on the next street, and the traction people are laying tracks more than three miles beyond. I suppose she'll be driving out to see Lucy tomorrow. I thought, George hesitated. I thought perhaps I'd go after dinner this evening. At this his mother laughed, not astonished. It was only my feeble joke about tomorrow, Georgie. I was pretty sure you couldn't wait that long. Did Lucy write to you about the factory? No, what factory? The automobile shops. They had rather a dubious time at first, I'm afraid, and some of Eugene's experiments turned out badly, but this spring they finished eight automobiles and sold them all, and they've got twelve more almost finished, and they've sold already. Eugene is so gay about it. What do his old sewing machines look like, like that first one he had when they came here? No, indeed, they have rubber tires blown up with air, pneumatic. And they aren't so high. They're very easy to get into, and the engine's in front. Eugene thinks that's a great improvement. They're very interesting to look at. Behind the driver's seat there's a sort of box where four people can sit with a step and a little door in the rear, and I know all about it, said George. I've seen any number like that, East. You can see all of them if you want them. If you stand on Fifth Avenue half an hour, any afternoon. I've seen half a dozen go by almost at the same time, within a few minutes anyhow. And of course electric hands-ons are a common sight there any day. I hired one myself the last time I was there. How fast do Mr. Morgan's machines go? Much too fast. It's very exhilarating, but rather frightening, and they do make a fearful uproar. He says, though, he thinks he sees a way to get around the noisiness in time. I don't mind the noise, said George. Give me a horse for mine, though, any day. I must get up a race with one of those things. Penn Dennis will leave it one mile behind in a two-mile run. How's grandfather? He looks well, but he complains sometimes of his heart. I suppose that's natural at his age, and it's an Amberson trouble. Having mentioned this, she looked anxious instantly. Do you ever feel any weakness there, Georgie? No, he laughed. Are you sure, dear? No! And he laughed again. Did you? Oh, I think not. At least the doctor told me he thought my heart was about all right. He said I needn't be alarmed. I should think not. Women do seem to be always talking about health. I suppose they haven't got enough else to think of. That must be it, she said, gaily. We're all an idle lot. George had taken off his coat. I don't like to hint to a lady, he said, but I do want to dress before dinner. Well, don't be long. I've got to do a lot of looking at you, dear. She kissed him and ran away, singing. But his aunt Fanny was not so fond, and at the dinner table there came a spark of liveliness into her eye when George patronizingly asked her what was the news in her own particular line of sport. What do you mean, Georgie? She asked quietly. Oh, I mean, what's the news in this fast set, generally? You've been causing any divorces lately? No, said Fanny, the spark in her eye getting brighter. I haven't been causing anything. Well, what's the gossip? Usually hear pretty much everything that goes on around the nooks and crannies in this town I hear. What's the last from the gossip's corner, auntie? Fanny dropped her eyes and the spark was concealed, but a movement of her lower lip betokened a tendency to laugh, as she replied. There hasn't been much gossip lately, except the report that Lucy Morgan and Fred Kinney are engaged, and that's quite old by this time. Undeniably, this bit of mischief was entirely successful, for there was a clatter upon George's plate. What, what do you think you're talking about? He gasped. Miss Fanny looked up innocently. About the report of Lucy Morgan's engagement to Fred Kinney. George turned dumbly to his mother, and Isabelle shook her head reassuringly. People are always starting rumours, she said. I haven't paid any attention to this one. But you've heard it, he stammered. Oh, one hears all sorts of nonsense, dear. I have at the slightest idea that it's true. Then you have heard it. I wouldn't let it take my appetite, his father suggested, dryly. There are plenty of girls in the world. George turned pale. Eat your dinner, Georgie, his aunt said, sweetly. Food will do you good. I didn't say I knew this rumour was true. I only said I'd heard it. When, when did you hear it? Oh, months ago. And Fanny found any further postponement of laughter impossible. Fanny, you're a hard-hearted creature, Isabelle said gently. You really are. Don't pay any attention to her, George. Fred Kinney's only a clerk in his uncle's hardware place. He couldn't marry for ages, even if anybody would accept him. George breathed tumultuously. I don't care anything about ages. What's that got to do with it? He said, his thoughts appearing to be somewhat disconnected. Ages don't mean anything. I only want to know. I want to know. I want— He stopped. What do you want? His father asked crossly. Why don't you say it? Don't make such a fuss. I'm not, not at all, George declared, pushing his chair back from the table. You must finish your dinner, dear, his mother urged. Don't? I have finished. I've eaten all I want. I don't want any more than I wanted. I don't want— I— He rose, still incoherent. I prefer— I want— Please excuse me. He left the room, and a moment later, the screens outside the open front door were heard to slam. Fanny, you shouldn't. Isabelle, don't reproach me. He did have plenty of dinner, and I only told the truth. Everybody has been saying. But there isn't any truth in it. We don't actually know that there isn't, Miss Fanny insisted, giggling. We've never asked Lucy. I wouldn't ask her anything so absurd. George would, George's father remarked, that's what he's gone to do. Mr. Miniver was not mistaken. That was what his son had gone to do. Lucy and her father were just rising from their dinner table, when the stirred youth arrived at the front door of the new house. It was a cottage, however, rather than a house, and Lucy had taken a free hand with the architect, achieving results in white and green outside, and white and blue inside, to such effect of youth and daintiness that her father complained of too much springtime. The whole place, including his own bedroom, was a young damsel's boudoir, he said, so that nowhere could he smoke a cigar without feeling like a ruffian. However, he was smoking when George arrived, and he encouraged George to join him in the pastime. But the caller, whose air was both tense and preoccupied, declined with something like agitation. I never smoke, that is, I'm seldom, I mean, no thanks, he said. I mean, not at all, I'd rather not. Aren't you well, George? Eugene asked, looking at him, in perplexity. Have you been overworking at college? You do look rather pale. I don't work, said George. I mean, I don't work, I think, but I don't work. I only work at the end of the term. There isn't much to do. Eugene's perplexity was little decreased, and a tinkle of the doorbell afforded him obvious relief. It's my foreman, he said, looking at his watch. I'll take him out in the yard to talk. This is no place for a foreman. And he departed, leaving the living room to Lucy and George. It was a pretty room, white-paneled and blue-curtained, and no place for a foreman, as Eugene said. There was a grand piano, and Lucy stood, leaning back against it, looking intently at George, while her fingers, behind her, absently struck a cord or two. And her dress was the dress for that room, being of blue and white, too. And the high color in her cheeks was far from interfering with the general harmony of things. George saw with dismay that she was prettier than ever, and, naturally, he missed the reassurance he might have felt, had he been able to guess that Lucy, on her part, was finding him better looking than ever. For, however unusual the scope of George's pride, vanity of beauty was not included, he did not think about his looks. What's wrong, George? she asked, softly. What do you mean, what's wrong? You're awfully upset about something. Didn't you get through your examination, all right? Certainly I did. What makes you think anything's wrong with me? You do look pale, as Papa said, and it seemed to me that the way you talked sounded, well, a little confused. Confused, I said I didn't care to smoke. What in the world is confused about that? Nothing, but see here, George stepped close to her. Are you glad to see me? You needn't be so fierce about it, Lucy protested, laughing at his dramatic intensity. Of course I am. How long have I been looking forward to it? I don't know, he said sharply, abating nothing of his fierceness. How long have you? Why, ever since you went away. Is that true? Lucy, is that true? You are funny, she said. Of course it's true. Do tell me what's the matter with you, George. I will, he exclaimed. I was a boy when I saw you last. I see that now, though I didn't then. Well, I'm not a boy any longer, I'm a man, and a man has a right to demand a totally different treatment. Why has he? What? I don't seem to be able to understand you at all, George. Why shouldn't a boy be treated just as well as a man? George seemed to find himself at a loss. Why shouldn't? Well, he shouldn't, because a man has a right to certain explanations. What explanations? Whether he's been made a toy of, George almost shouted. That's what I want to know. Lucy shook her head despairingly. You are the queerest person. You say you're a man now, but you talk more like a boy than ever. What does make you so excited? Excited, he stormed. Do you dare to stand there and call me excited? I tell you I have never been more calm or calmer in my life. I don't know that a person needs to be called excited because he demands explanations that are his simple due. What in the world do you want me to explain? Your conduct with Fred Kinney, George shouted. Lucy uttered a sudden cry of laughter. She was delighted. It's been awful, she said. I don't know that I ever heard of worse misbehavior. Papa and I have been there twice to dinner with his family, and I've been three times to church with Fred and once to the circus. I don't know when they will be here to arrest me. Stop that, George commanded fiercely. I want to know just one thing, and I mean to know it, too. Whether I enjoyed the circus? I want to know if you're engaged to him. No! She cried, and lifting her face close to his for the shortest instant possible, she gave him a look half merry, half defiant, but all fond. It was an adorable look. Lucy, he said, huskily. But she turned quickly from him and ran to the other end of the room. He followed awkwardly, stammering, Lucy, I want—I want to ask you. Will you? Will you be engaged to me? She stood at a window, seeming to look out into the summer darkness, her back to him. Will you, Lucy? No, she murmured, just audibly. Why not? I'm older than you. Eight months! You're too young. Is that, he said, gulping, is that the only reason you won't? She did not answer. As she stood, persistently staring out of the window, with her back to him, she did not see how humble his attitude had become, but his voice was low, and it shook so that she could have no doubt of his emotions. Lucy, please forgive me for making such a row, he said, thus gently. I've been—I've been terribly upset. Terribly. You know how I feel about you, and always have felt about you. I've shown it in every single thing I've done since the first time I met you, and I know you know it, don't you? Still she did not move or speak. Is the only reason you won't be engaged to me? You think I'm too young, Lucy? It's—it's reason enough, she said, faintly. At that he caught one of her hands, and she turned to him. There were tears in her eyes, tears which he did not understand at all. Lucy, you little deer, he cried. I knew you—no. No, she said, and she pushed him away, withdrawing her hand. George, let's not talk of solemn things. Solumn things like what? Like being engaged. But George had become altogether jubilant, and he laughed triumphantly. Good gracious! That isn't solemn. It is too, she said, wiping her eyes. It's too solemn for us. No it isn't. Lucy, let's sit down and be sensible, dear, she said. You sit over there. I will, if you call me dear again. No, she said, I will only call you that once again this summer, the night before you go away. That'll have to do, then, he laughed, so long as I know we're engaged. But we're not, she protested, and we never will be if you don't promise not to speak of it again until—until I tell you to. I won't promise that, said the happy George. I will only promise not to speak of it until the next time you call me dear, and you've promised to call me that the night before I leave for my senior year. Oh, but I didn't, she said earnestly, then hesitated. Did I? Didn't you? I don't think I meant it, she murmured, her wet lashes flickering above troubled eyes. I know one thing about you, he said, gaily, his triumph increasing. You never went back on anything you said yet, and I'm not afraid of this being the first time. But we mustn't let—she faltered, and then went on tremulously—George, we've gone on so well together, we won't let this make a difference between us, will we? And she joined in his laughter. It will all depend on what you tell me the night before I go away. You agree we're going to settle things then, don't you, Lucy? I don't promise. Yes, you do, don't you? Well. End of CHAPTER XIII. That night George began a jubilant warfare upon his aunt Fanny, opening the campaign upon his return home at about eleven o'clock. Fanny had retired and was presumably asleep, but George, on the way to his own room, paused before her door, and serenaded her in a full baritone. As I walk along the void of a long, with my independent air, the people all declare he must be a millionaire. Oh, you can hear them sigh and wish to die, and see them wink the other eye, as the man that broke the bank at Monte Carlo. Isabel came from George's room where she had been reading, waiting for him. I'm afraid you'll disturb your father, dear. I wish you'd sing more, though. In the daytime you have a splendid voice. Good night, old lady. I thought perhaps I—didn't you want me to come in with you and talk a little? Not tonight. You go to bed. Good night, old lady. He kissed her hilariously, entered his room with a skip, closed his door noisily, and then he could be heard tossing things about, loudly humming, the man that broke the bank at Monte Carlo. Smiling, his mother knelt outside his door to pray. Then, with her amen, pressed her lips to the bronze door-knob and went silently to her own apartment. After breakfasting in bed, George spent the next morning at his grandfather's, and did not encounter his Aunt Fanny until lunch, when she seemed to be ready for him. Thank you so much for the serenade, George, she said. Your poor father tells me he'd just got to sleep for the first time in two nights, but after your kind attentions he lay awake the rest of last night. Perfectly true, Mr. Vinevere said, grimly. Of course I didn't know, sir, George hastened to assure him. I'm awfully sorry, but Aunt Fanny was so gloomy and excited before I went out last evening I thought she needed cheering up. I, Fanny cheered, I was gloomy, I was excited. You mean about that engagement? Yes, weren't you? I thought I heard you worrying over somebody's being engaged. Didn't I hear you say you'd heard Mr. Eugene Morgan was engaged to marry some pretty little seventeen-year-old girl? Fanny was stung, but she made a brave effort. Did you ask Lucy, she said? Her voice almost refusing the teasing laugh she tried to make it utter. Did you ask her when Fred Kenny and she? Yes, that story wasn't true, but the other one. Here he stared at Fanny and then affected Dismay. Why, what's the matter with your face, Aunt Fanny? It seems agitated. Agitated, Fanny said, disdainfully, but her voice undeniably lacked steadiness. Agitated. Oh, come, Mr. Minnifer interposed, let's have a little peace. I'm willing, said George. I don't want to see poor Aunt Fanny all stirred up over a rumor I'd just this minute invented myself. She's so excitable about certain subjects. It's hard to control her. He turned to his mother. What's the matter with Grandfather? Didn't you see him this morning, Isabelle asked? Yes, he was glad to see me and all that, but he seemed pretty fidgety. Has he been having trouble with his heart again? Not lately, no. Well, he's not himself. I tried to talk to him about the estate. It's disgraceful. It really is the way things are looking. He wouldn't listen, and he seemed upset. What's he upset over? Isabelle looked serious. However, it was her husband who suggested gloomily. I suppose the major's bothered about this Sydney and Emilia business, most likely. That's Sydney and Emilia business, George asked. Your mother can tell you if she wants to, Miniver said. It's not my side of the family, so I keep off. It's rather disagreeable for all of us, Georgie, Isabelle began. You see, your Uncle Sydney wanted a diplomatic position, and he thought Brother George, being in Congress, could arrange it. George did get him the offer of a South American ministry, but Sydney wanted a European ambassadorship, and he got quite indignant with poor George for thinking he'd take anything smaller. And he believes George didn't work hard enough for him. George had done his best, of course, and now he's out of Congress and won't run again, so there's Sydney's idea of a big diplomatic position gone for good. Well, Sydney and your Aunt Emilia are terribly disappointed, and they say they've been thinking for years that this town isn't really fit to live in, for a gentleman, Sydney says. And it is getting rather big and dirty. So they've sold their house and decided to go abroad to live permanently. As a villain near Florence they've often talked of buying, and they want father to let them have their share of the estate now, instead of waiting for him to leave it to them in his will. Well, I suppose that's fair enough, George said. That is, in case he intended to leave them a certain amount in his will. Of course that's understood, Georgie. Father explained his will to us long ago, a third to them, and a third to Brother George, and a third to us. Her son made a simple calculation in his mind. Until George was a bachelor and probably would never marry, Sydney and Emilia were childless. The major's only grandchild appeared to remain the eventual heir of the entire property, no matter if the major did turn over to Sydney a third of it now. And George had a fragmentary vision of himself, in mourning, arriving to take possession of a historic Florentine villa. He saw himself walking up a cypress-boarded path, with ancient carven stone balustrades in the distance, and servants in mourning livery, greeting the new senior. Well, I suppose it's grandfather's own affair. He can do it or not, just as he likes. I don't see why he'd mind much. He seemed rather confused and pained about it, Isabel said. I think they oughtn't to urge it. George says that the estate won't stand taking out the third that Sydney wants, and that Sydney and Emilia are behaving like a couple of pigs. She laughed, continuing. Of course I don't know whether they are or not. I never have understood any more about business myself than a little pig would. But I'm on George's side, whether he's right or wrong. I always was, from the time we were children, and Sydney and Emilia are hurt with me about it, I'm afraid. They've stopped speaking to George entirely. Poor father, family rouse at this time of life. George became thoughtful. If Sydney and Emilia were behaving like pigs, things might not be so simple as at first they seemed to be. Well Sydney and Aunt Emilia might live an awful long while, he thought, and besides people didn't always leave their fortunes to relatives. Sydney might die first, leaving everything to his widow, and some curly-haired Italian adventurer might get round her, over there in Florence. She might be fool enough to marry again, or even adopt somebody. He became more and more thoughtful for getting entirely a plan he had formed for the continued teasing of his Aunt Fanny, and an hour after lunch he strolled over to his grandfathers, intending to apply for further information, as a party rightfully interested. He did not carry out this intention, however. Going into the big house by a side entrance, he was informed that the major was upstairs in his bedroom, that his sons, Sydney and George, were both with him, and that a serious argument was in progress. You can stand right in the middle of that big stay away, said old Sam, the ancient Negro, who was his informant, and you can hear all you are mine to, without going up no fudder. Mr. Sydney, and Mr. George, talking louder, and I ever hear nobody carry on in this here house. Callin', honey, big callin'." All right, said George, shortly. You go on back to your own part of the house, and don't make any talk. Hear me? Yes, sir, yes, sir," Sam chuckled, as he shuffled away. Plenty talkin' without Sam. Yes, sir." George went to the foot of the great stairway. He could hear angry voices overhead, those of his two girls, and a plaintive murmur, as if the major tried to keep the peace. Such sounds were far from encouraging to callers, and George decided not to go upstairs until this interview was over. His decision was the result of no timidity, nor of a too sensitive delicacy. What he felt was, that if he interrupted the scene in his grandfather's room, just at this time, one of the three gentlemen engaging in it might speak to him in a presumptory manner in the heat of the moment, and George saw no reason for exposing his dignity to such mischances. Therefore he turned from the stairway, and going quietly into the library picked up a magazine. But he did not open it, for his attention was instantly arrested by his Aunt Amelia's voice speaking in the next room. The door was open, and George heard her distinctly. "'Isabel does?' "'Isabel!' she exclaimed, her tone high and shrewish. "'You needn't tell me anything about Isabelle Minifer, I guess, my dear old Frank Bronson. I know her a little better than you do, don't you think?' George heard the voice of Mr. Bronson replying, a voice familiar to him as that of his grandfather's attorney-in-chief and chief intimate as well. He was a contemporary of the Majors, being over seventy, and they had been through three years of the war in the same regiment. Amelia addressed him now with an effect of angry mockery as my dear old Frank Bronson. But that, without the mockery, was how the Amberson family almost always spoke of him, dear old Frank Bronson. He was a hail-thin old man, six feet three inches tall and without a stoop. "'I doubt you're knowing Isabelle,' he said stiffly. "'You speak of her, as you do, because she sides with her brother George, instead of with you and Sidney.' "'Put!' Aunt Amelia was evidently in a passion. "'You know what's been going on over there well enough, Frank Bronson.' "'I don't even know what you're talking about.' "'Oh, you don't! You don't know that Isabelle takes George aside simply because he's Eugene Morgan's best friend?' "'It seems to me you're talking pure nonsense,' said Bronson sharply. "'Not impure nonsense, I hope.'" Amelia became shrill. "'I thought you were a man of the world. Don't tell me you're blind. For nearly two years Isabelle's been pretending to chaperone Fanny Minifer with Eugene, and all the time she's been dragging that poor old Fanny around to chaperone her and Eugene. Under the circumstances she knows people will get to think Fanny's a pretty slim kind of chaperone, and Isabelle wants to please George because she thinks there'll be less talk if she can keep her own brother around, seeming to approve. Talk! She'd better look out. The whole town will be talking the first thing she knows. She---- Amelia stopped and stared at the doorway in a panic for her nephew stood there. She kept her eyes upon his white face for a few strained moments, then regaining her nerve, looked away and shrugged her shoulders. She weren't intended to hear what I've been saying, George, she said quietly, but since you seem to---- Yes, I did. So she shrugged her shoulders again. After all, I don't know, but it's just as well in the long run. He walked up to where she sat. You----you---- he said thickly. It seems----it seems to me you're----you're pretty common. Amelia tried to give the impression of an unconcerned person laughing with complete indifference, but the sounds she produced were disjointed and uneasy. She found herself looking out of the open window near her. Of course if you want to make more trouble in the family than we've already got, George, with your eavesdropping you can go and repeat. Old Bronson had risen from his chair in great distress. Your aunt was talking nonsense because she's peaked over a business matter, George, he said. She doesn't mean what she said, and neither she nor anyone else gives the slightest credit to such foolishness. No one in the world. George gulped and wet lines shone suddenly along his lower eyelids. They'd better not, he said, than stalked out of the room and out of the house. He stamped fiercely across the stone slabs of the front porch, descended the steps, and halted abruptly, blinking in the strong sunshine. In front of his own gate, beyond the major's broad lawn, his mother was just getting into her Victoria, where sat already his aunt Fanny and Lucy Morgan. It was a summer fashion picture, the three ladies charmingly dressed, delicate parasols aloft, the lines of the Victoria graceful as those of a violin. The trim pair of bays and glistening harness picked out with silver, and the serious black driver, whom Isabel, being an Amberson, dared even in that town to put into a black livery coat, boots, white britches, and cockaded hat. They jingled smartly away, and seeing George standing on the major's lawn, Lucy waved, and Isabel threw him a kiss. But George shuddered, pretending not to see them, and stooped as if searching for something lost in the grass, protracting that posture until the Victoria was out of hearing. And ten minutes later, George Amberson, somewhat in the semblance of an angry person plunging out of the mansion, found a pale nephew waiting to accost him. I haven't time to talk, Georgie. Yes you have. You'd better. What's the matter, then? His namesake drew him away from the vicinity of the house. I want to tell you something I just heard Aunt Amelia say in there. I don't want to hear it, St. Amberson. I've been hearing entirely too much of what Aunt Amelia says lately. She says my mother's on your side about this division of the property because you're Eugene Morgan's best friend. What in the name of heaven has that got to do with your mother's being on my side? She said—George paused to swallow. She said—he faltered. You look sick, said his uncle, and laughed shortly. If it's because of anything Amelia's been saying, I don't blame you. What else did she say? George swallowed again, as with nausea. But under his uncle's encouragement he was able to be explicit. She said my mother wanted you to be friendly to her about Eugene Morgan. She said my mother had been using Aunt Fanny as a chaperone. Amberson admitted a laugh of disgust. It's wonderful what Tommy Rott, a woman in a state of spite, can think of. I suppose you don't doubt that Amelia Amberson created this specimen of Tommy Rott herself. I know she did. Then what's the matter? She said—George faltered again—she said—she implied people were talking about it. Of all the damn nonsense, her uncle exclaimed. George looked at him haggardly. You're sure they're not? Rubbish! Your mother's on my side about this division, because she knows Sydney's a pig and always has been a pig, and so has his spiteful wife. I'm trying to keep them from getting the better of your mother as well as from getting the better of me, don't you suppose? Well, they're in a rage because Sydney always could do what he liked with Father unless your mother interfered, and they know I've got Isabelle to ask him not to do what they wanted. They're keeping up the fight and their sore. And Amelia's a woman who always says any damn thing that comes into her head. That's all there is to it. But she said—George persisted wretchedly. She said there was talk. She said— Look here, young fellow! Amberson laughed, good-naturedly. There probably is some harmless talk about the way your aunt Fanny goes after poor Eugene, and I've no doubt I've abetted it myself. People can't help being amused by a thing like that. Fanny was always languishing at him. Twenty odd years ago before he left here. Well, we can't blame the poor thing as she's got her hopes up again, and I don't know that I blame her myself for using your mother the way she does. How do you mean? Amberson put his hand on George's shoulder. You like to tease Fanny, he said, but I wouldn't tease her about this if I were you. Fanny hasn't got much in her life. You know, Georgie, just being an aunt isn't really the career it may sometimes appear to you. In fact, I don't know of anything much that Fanny has got except her feeling about Eugene. She's always had it, and what's funny to us is pretty much life and death to her, I suspect. Now, I will not deny that Eugene Morgan is attracted to your mother. He is, and that's another case of always was. But I know him, and he's a knight, George, a crazy one, perhaps, if you've read Don Quixote, and I think your mother likes him better than she likes any man outside her own family, and that he interests her more than anybody else, and always has. And that's all there is to it, except… Except what, George asked quickly as he paused. Except that I suspect, Amberson chuckled and began over. I'll tell you in confidence. I think Fanny's a fairly tricky customer for such an innocent old girl. There isn't any real harm in her, but she's a great diplomatist. Lots of cards up her lace sleeves, Georgie. By the way, did you ever notice how proud she is of her arms, always flashing them at poor Eugene? And he stopped to laugh again. I don't see anything confidential about that, George complained. I thought, wait a minute. My idea is, don't forget it's a confidential one, but I'm devilish right about it, young Georgie. It's this. Fanny uses your mother for a decoy duck. She does everything in the world she can to keep your mother's friendship with Eugene going, because she thinks that's what keeps Eugene about the place, so to speak. Fanny's always with your mother, you see, and whenever he sees Isabelle, he sees Fanny. Many things he'll get used to the idea of her being around, and some day her chance may come. You see, she's probably afraid—perhaps she even knows, poor thing—that she wouldn't get to see much of Eugene if it weren't for Isabelle's being such a friend of his. There. Do you see? Well, I suppose so. George's brow was still dark, however. If you're sure whatever talk there is, is about Aunt Fanny. If that's so, don't be an ass, his uncle advised him lightly, moving away. I'm off for a week's fishing to forget that woman in there, and her pig of a husband. His gesture toward the mansion indicated Mr. and Mrs. Sydney Amberson. I recommend a light course for you, if you're silly enough to pay any attention to such rubbishings. Good-bye. George was partially reassured, but still troubled. A word haunted him, like the recollection of a nightmare. Talk. He stood looking at the houses across the street from the mansion, and though the sunshine was bright upon them, they seemed mysteriously threatening. He had always despised them, except the largest of them, which was the home of his henchmen, Charlie Johnson. The Johnsons had originally owned a lot three hundred feet wide, but they had sold all of it except the meager frontage before the house itself, and five houses were now crowded up into the space where one used to squire it so spaciously. Up and down the street the same transformation had taken place. Every big, comfortable old brick house now had two or three smaller frame-neighbours crowding up to it on each side, cheap-looking neighbours, most of them needing paint and not clean. And yet, though they were cheap-looking, they had cost as much to build as the brick houses, whose former ample yards they occupied. Only where George stood was there left a suede as of yore, the great level green lawn that served for both the meager's house and his daughter's. This serene domain, unbroken except for the two graveled carriage-drives, alone remained as it had during the early glories of the Amberson addition. George stared at the ugly house's opposite and hated them more than ever, but he shivered. Perhaps the riff-raff living in those houses sat at the windows to watch their betters. Perhaps they dared to gossip. He uttered an exclamation and walked rapidly toward his own front gate. The Victoria had returned with Miss Fanny alone. She jumped out briskly, and the Victoria waited. Where's mother, George asked sharply as he met her. At Lucy's I only came back to get some embroidery because we found the sun too hot for driving. I'm in a hurry. But going into the house with her he detained her when she would have hastened upstairs. I haven't time to talk now, Georgie. I'm going right back. I promised your mother. You'd listen, said George. What on earth? He repeated what Amelia had said. This time, however, he spoke coldly and without the emotion he had exhibited during the recital to his uncle. Fanny was the one who showed agitation during this interview, for she grew fiery red and her eyes dilated. What on earth do you want to bring such trash to me for? she demanded, breathing fast. I merely wished to know two things, whether it is your duty or mine to speak to father of what Aunt Amelia said. Fanny stamped her foot. You little fool, she cried, you awful little fool! I decline, decline my hat. Your father's a sick man, and you—he doesn't seem so to me. Well, he does to me, and you want to go troubling him with an Amberson family row? It's just what that cat would love you to do. Well, I tell you, father, if you like, it'll only make him a little sicker to think he's got a son silly enough to listen to such craziness. Then you're sure there isn't any talk. Fanny disdained a reply in words. She made a hissing sound of utter contempt and snapped her fingers. Then she asked, scornfully, what's the other thing you wanted to know? George's pallor increased. Whether it mightn't be better, under the circumstances, he said, if this family were not so intimate with the Morgan family, at least for a time, it might be better. Fanny stared at him incredulously. You mean you would quit seeing Lucy? I hadn't thought of that side of it, but if such a thing were necessary on account of talk about my mother, I—I—he hesitated unhappily. I suggest that if all of us, for a time, perhaps only for a time, it might be better if—see here, she interrupted. We'll settle this nonsense right now. If Eugene Morgan comes to this house, for instance, to see me, your mother can't get up and leave the place the minute he gets here, can she? What do you want her to do? Insult him? Or perhaps you'd prefer she insult Lucy? That would do just as well. What is it you're up to, anyhow? Do you really love your Aunt Emilia so much that you want to please her? Or do you really hate your Aunt Fanny so much that you want to—that you want to—she choked and sought for her handkerchief, and suddenly she began to cry. Oh, see here, George said, I don't hate you, Aunt Fanny. That's silly. I don't. You do. You do. You want to—you want to destroy the only thing that I—that I ever—an unable to continue she became inaudible in her handkerchief. George felt remorseful, and his own troubles were lightened. All at once it became clear to him that he had been worrying about nothing. He perceived that his Aunt Emilia was indeed an old cat, and that to give her scandalous meanderings another thought would be the height of folly. By no means insusceptible to such pathos as that now exposed before him, he did not lack pity for Fanny, whose almost spoken confession was lamentable. And he was granted the vision to understand that his mother also pitied Fanny infinitely more than he did. This seemed to explain everything. He patted the unhappy lady awkwardly upon the shoulder. There, there, he said, I didn't mean anything. Of course the only thing to do about Aunt Emilia is to pay no attention to her. It's all right, Aunt Fanny, don't cry. I feel a lot better now myself. Come on. I'll drive back there with you. It's all over, and nothing's the matter. Now can't you cheer up? Fanny cheered up, and presently the customarily hostile aunt and nephew were driving out Amberson Boulevard amably together in the hot sunshine. CHAPTER XIV Almost was Lucy's last word on the last night of George's vacation, that vital evening which she had half consented to agree upon for settling things between them. Just engaged, she meant. And George, discontented with the almost, but contented that she seemed glad to wear a sapphire locket with a tiny photograph of George Amberson Minifer inside it, found himself wonderful in a new world at the final instant of their parting. For after declining to let him kiss her goodbye, as if his desire for such a ceremony were the most preposterous absurdity in the world, she had leaned suddenly close to him and left upon his cheek the various feather from a fairy's wing. She wrote him a month later. No, it must keep on being almost. Isn't almost pretty pleasant? You know well enough that I care for you. I did from the first minute I saw you, and I'm pretty sure you knew it. I'm afraid you did. I'm afraid you always knew it. I'm not conventional and cautious about being engaged, as you say I am, dear. I always read over the deers in your letters a time or two, as you say you do in mine. Only I read all of your letters a time or two. But it's such a solemn thing, it scares me. It means a good deal to a lot of people besides you and me, and that scares me too. You write that I take your feeling for me too lightly, and that I take the whole affair too lightly. Isn't that odd? Because to myself I seem to take it as something so much more solemn than you do. I shouldn't be a bit surprised to find myself an old lady someday, still thinking of you, while you'd be away and away with someone else, perhaps, and me forgotten ages ago. Lucy Morgan, you would say, when you saw my obituary. Lucy Morgan, let me see, I seem to remember the name. Didn't I know some Lucy Morgan or other, once upon a time? Then you would shake your big white head and stroke your long white beard. You would have such a distinguished long white beard. And you'd say, no, I don't seem to remember any Lucy Morgan. I wonder what made me think I did. And poor me, I'd be deep in the ground wondering if you'd heard about it and what you were saying. Goodbye for today. Don't work too hard, dear. George immediately seized pen and paper, plaintively but vigorously, requesting Lucy not to imagine him with a beard distinguished or other, even in the extremities of age. Then, after inscribing his protest in the matter of this visioned beard, he concluded his misive in a tone mollified to tenderness, and proceeded to read a letter from his mother, which had reached him simultaneously with Lucy's. Isabelle wrote from Asheville, where she had just arrived with her husband. I think your father looks better already, darling, though we've been here only a few hours. It may be we've found just the place to build him up. The doctors said they hoped it would prove to be, and if it is, it would be worth the long struggle we had with him to get him to give up and come. Poor dear man, he was so blue, not about his health, but about giving up the worries down at his office and forgetting them for a time, if he only will forget them. It took the pressure of the family and all his best friends to get him to come. But father and brother George and Fanny and Eugene Morgan all kept at him so constantly that he just had to give in. I'm afraid that in my anxiety to get him to do what the doctors wanted him to, I wasn't able to back up brother George as I should have in his difficulty with Sidney and Amelia. I'm so sorry. George is more upset than I've ever seen him. They've got what they wanted, and they're sailing before long I hear, to live in Florence. Father said he couldn't stand the constant persuading. I'm afraid he used the word nagging. I can't understand people behaving like that. George says they may be Ambersons, but they're vulgar. I'm afraid I almost agree with him. At least I think they were inconsiderate. But I don't see why I'm unburdening myself of all this to you, poor darling. We'll have forgotten all about it long before you come home for the holidays. And it should mean little or nothing to you anyway. Forget that I've been so foolish. Your father is waiting for me to take a walk with him. That's a splendid sign, because he hasn't felt he could walk much at home lately. I mustn't keep him waiting. Be careful to wear your Macintosh and rubbers and rainy weather. And as soon as it begins to get colder, you're Ulster. Wish you could see your father now looks so much better. We plan to stay six weeks if the place agrees with him. It does really seem to already. He's just called in the door to say he's waiting. Don't smoke too much, darling boy. Devotedly, your mother, Isabel. But she did not keep her husband there for the six weeks she anticipated. She did not keep him anywhere that long. Three weeks after writing this letter, she telegraphed suddenly to George that they were leaving for home at once. And four days later, when he and a friend came whistling to his study from lunch at the club, he found another telegram upon his desk. He read it twice before he comprehended its import. Papa left us at ten this morning, dearest mother. The friend saw the change in his face. Not bad news. George lifted utterly dumbfounded eyes from the yellow paper. My father, he said weakly. She says, she says he's dead. I've got to go home. His uncle George and the major met him at the station when he arrived, the first time the major had ever come to meet his grandson. The old gentleman sat in his closed carriage, which still needed a paint, at the entrance to the station. But he got out and advanced to grasp George's hand tremulously when the latter appeared. Poor fellow, he said, and patted him repeatedly upon the shoulder. Poor fellow, poor Georgie. George has not yet come to a full realization of his loss. So far his condition was merely dazed. And as the major continued to pat him, murmuring poor fellow over and over, George was seized by an almost irresistible impulse to tell his grandfather that he was not a poodle. But he said thanks, in a low voice, and got into the carriage, his two relatives following with deferential sympathy. He noticed that the major's tremulousness did not disappear as they drove up the street, and that he seemed much feebler than during the summer. Truly, however, George was concerned with his own emotion, or rather with his lack of emotion, and the anxious sympathy of his grandfather and his uncle made him feel hypocritical. He was not grief-stricken, but he felt that he ought to be. And with a secret shame concealed his callousness beneath an affectation of solemnity. But when he was taken into the room where lay what was left of Wilbur Miniver, George had no longer need to pretend. His grief was sufficient. It needed only the sight of that forever inert semblance of the quiet man who had always been so quiet a part of his son's life. So quiet a part that George had seldom been consciously aware that his father was indeed a part of his life. As the figure lay there, its very quietness was what was most lifelike, and suddenly it struck George hard. And in that unexpected racking grief of his son, Wilbur Miniver became more vividly George's father than he ever had been in life. When George left the room his arm was about his black-robed mother. His shoulders were still shaken with sobs. He leaned upon his mother, she gently comforted him, and presently he recovered his composure and became self-conscious enough to wonder if he had not been making an unmanly display of himself. I'm all right again, mother, he said awkwardly. Don't worry about me. You'd better go lie down or something. You look pretty pale. Wil did look pale, but not ghastly pale as Fanny did. Fanny's grief was overwhelming. She stayed in her room and George did not see her until the next day, a few minutes before the funeral, when her haggard face appalled him. But by this time he was quite himself again. And during the short service in the cemetery his thoughts even wandered so far as to permit him a feeling of regret not directly connected with his father. Then the open flower-walled grave was a mound where new grass grew, and here lay his great-uncle, old John Minifer, who had died the previous autumn. And beyond this were the graves of George's grandfather and grandmother Minifer, and of his grandfather Minifer's second wife and her three sons, George's half-uncles, who had been drowned together in a canoe accident when George was a child. Fanny was the last of the family. Next beyond was the Amberson family lot where lay the major's wife and their sons Henry and Milton, uncles whom George dimly remembered, and beside them lay Isabelle's older sister, his aunt Estelle, who had died in her girlhood long before George was born. The Minifer Monument was a granite block, with the name chiseled upon it on one polished side, and the Amberson Monument was a white marble shaft, taller than any other in that neighborhood. But farther on there was a new section of the cemetery, an addition which had been thrown open to occupancy only a few years before, after dexterous modern treatment by a landscape specialist. There were some new large mausoleums here, and shafts taller than the Ambersons, as well as a number of monuments of some sculptural pretentiousness. And altogether the new section appeared to be a more fashionable and important quarter than that older one which contained the Amberson and Minifer plots. This was what caused George's regret, during the moment or two when his mind strayed from his father and the reading of the service. On the train going back to college ten days later, this regret, though it was as much an annoyance as a regret, recurred to his mind, and a feeling developed within him that the new quarter of the cemetery was in bad taste. Not architecturally or sculpturally perhaps, but in presumption. It seemed to flaunt a kind of parva-new ignorance, as if it were actually pleased to be unaware that all the aristocratic and really important families were buried in the old section. The annoyance gave way before a recollection of the sweet mournfulness of his mother's face as she had said goodbye to him at the station, and of how lovely she looked in her mourning. He thought of Lucy, whom he had seen only twice, and he could not help feeling that in these quiet interviews he had appeared to her as tinged with heroism. She had shown, rather than said, how brave she thought him in this sorrow. But what came most vividly to George's mind during these retrospections was the despairing face of his Aunt Fanny. Again and again he thought of it. He could not avoid its haunting. And for days after he got back to college the stricken likeness of Fanny would appear before him unexpectedly, and without a cause that he could trace in his immediately previous thoughts. Her grief had been so silent, yet it had so amazed him. George felt more and more compassion for this ancient antagonist of his, and he wrote to his mother about her. I'm afraid poor Aunt Fanny might think now father's gone we won't want her to live with us any longer, and because I always teased her so much she might think I'd be for turning her out. I don't know where on earth she would go or what she could live on if we did do something like this, and of course we never would do such a thing, but I'm pretty sure she had something of the kind on her mind. She didn't say anything, but the way she looked is what makes me think so. Honestly, to me she looked just scared sick. You tell her there isn't any danger in the world of my treating her like that. Tell her everything is to go on just as it always has. Tell her to cheer up. CHAPTER XV Isabelle did more for Fanny than telling her to cheer up. Everything that Fanny inherited from her father, old Alec Minifer, had been invested in Wilbur's business. And Wilbur's business, after a period of illness corresponding in dates to the illness of Wilbur's body, had died just before Wilbur did. George Amberson and Fanny were both wiped out to a miracle of precision, as Amberson said. They owned not a penny and owed not a penny, he concluded, explaining his phrase. It's like the moment just before drowning. You're not underwater and you're not out of it. All you know is that you're not dead yet. He spoke philosophically, having his prospects from his father, to fall back on. But Fanny had neither prospects nor philosophy. However, a legal survey of Wilbur's estate revealed the fact that his life insurance was left clear of the wreck. And Isabelle, with the cheerful consent of her son, promptly turned this salvage over to her sister-in-law. Invested it would yield something better than nine hundred dollars a year, and thus she was assured of becoming neither a pauper nor a dependent, but proved to be, as Amberson said, adding his efforts to the cheering up of Fanny, and Eris, after all, in spite of rolling mills and the devil. She was unable to smile, and he continued his humane gayities. See what a wonderfully desirable income nine hundred dollars is, Fanny. A bachelor to be in your class must have exactly forty nine thousand one hundred a year. Then, you see, all you need to do in order to have fifty thousand a year is to be a little encouraging when some bachelor in your class begins to show by his haberdashery what he wants you to think about him. She looked at him wandily, murmured a desolate response she had sewing to do, and left the room, while Amberson shook his head roofily at his sister. I have often thought that humour was not my forte, he said. Lord, she doesn't cheer up much. The collegian did not return to his home for the holidays. And Isabel joined him, and they went south for the two weeks. She was proud of her stalwart good-looking son at the hotel where they stayed, and it was meat and drink to her when she saw how people stared at him in the lobby and on the big verandahs. Indeed, her vanity in him was so dominant that she was unaware of their staring at her with more interest, and an admiration friendlier than George evoked. Happy to have him to herself for this fortnight, she loved to walk with him, leaning upon his arm, to read with him, to watch the sea with him. Perhaps most of all she liked to enter the big dining-room with him. Yet both of them felt constantly the difference between this Christmas time and the other Christmas times of theirs. In all it was a sorrowful holiday. But when Isabel came east for George's commencement in June she brought Lucy with her, and things began to seem different, especially when George Amberson arrived with Lucy's father on class day. Eugene had been in New York on business. Amberson easily persuaded him to this outing, and they made a cheerful party of it, with the new graduate, of course, the hero and center of it all. His uncle was a fellow alumnus. Yanda was where I roamed when I was here, he said, pointing at one of the university buildings to Eugene. I don't know whether George would let my admirers place a tablet to mark the spot or not. He owns all these buildings now, you know. And you, when you were here? Like uncle like nephew? Don't tell George you think he's like me. Just at this time we should be careful of the young gentleman's feelings. Yes, said Eugene, if we weren't he might not let us exist at all. I'm sure I didn't have it so badly at his age, Amberson said, reflectively, as they strolled on through the commencement crowd. For one thing I had brothers and sisters, and my mother didn't just sit at my feet as George's does. But I wasn't an only grandchild, either. Fathers always spoiled Georgie a lot more than he did any of his own children. Eugene laughed. You need only three things to explain all that's good and bad about Georgie. Three. He's Isabel's only child. He's an Amberson. He's a boy. Well, Mr. Bones, of these three things, which are the good ones and which are the bad ones? All of them, said Eugene. It happened that just then they came in sight of the subject of their discourse. George was walking under the elms with Lucy, swinging a stick and pointing out to her various objects and localities, which had attained historical value during the last four years. The two older men marked his gestures careless and graceful. They observed his attitude, unconsciously noble, his easy proprietorship of the ground beneath his feet and round about of the branches overhead of the old buildings beyond. I don't know, Eugene said, smiling whimsically. I don't know. When I spoke of his being a human being, I don't know. Perhaps it's more like a deity. I wonder if I was like that, Amberson groaned. You don't suppose every Amberson has had to go through it, do you? Don't worry. At least half of it is a combination of youth, good looks, and college, and even the noblest Ambersons get over their nobility and come to be people in time. It takes more than time, though. I should say it did take more than time, his friend agreed, shaking a roofle head. Then they walked over to join the loveliest Amberson, whom neither time nor trouble seemed to have touched. She stood alone, thoughtful under the great trees, shaper-owning George and Lucy at a distance. But seeing the two friends approaching, she came to meet them. It's charming, isn't it, she said, moving her black-loved hand to indicate the summery dressed crowd strolling about them, or clustering in groups each with its own hero. They seem so eager and so confident to all these boys. It's touching. But, of course, youth doesn't know it's touching. Amberson coughed. No, it doesn't seem to take itself as pathetic precisely. Eugene and I were just speaking of something like that. Do you know what I think whenever I see these smooth, triumphal young faces? I always think, oh, how you're going to catch it. George! Oh yes, he said. Life is most ingenious. It's got a special walloping for every mother's son of them. Maybe, said Isabel, troubled. Maybe some of the mothers can take the walloping for them. Not one, her brother assured her, with emphasis. Not any more than she can take on her own face the lines that are bound to come on her sons. I suppose you know that all these young faces have got to get lines on them. Maybe they won't, she said, smiling wistfully. Maybe times will change, and nobody will have to wear lines. Times have changed like that for only one person that I know, Eugene said. And as Isabel looked inquiring, he laughed. And she saw that she was the only one person. His implication was justified, moreover, and she knew it. She blushed, charmingly. Which is it puts the lines on the faces, Amberson asked? Is it age or trouble? Of course, we can't decide that wisdom does it. We must be polite to Isabel. I'll tell you what puts the lines there, Eugene said. Age puts some, and trouble puts some. And work puts some. But the deepest are carved by lack of faith. The serenest brow is the one that believes the most. In what, Isabel asked gently? In everything. She looked at him inquiringly, and he laughed as he had a moment before when she had looked at him that way. Oh, yes you do, he said. She continued to look at him inquiringly a moment or two longer, and there was an unconscious earnestness in her face, something trustful as well as inquiring, as if she knew that whatever he meant it was all right. Then her eyes drooped thoughtfully, and she seemed to address some inquiries to herself. She looked up suddenly. Why, I believe, she said, in a tone of surprise. I believe I do. And at that both men laughed. Isabel, her brother exclaimed, you're a foolish person. There are times when you look exactly 14 years old. But this reminded her of her real affair in that part of the world. Good gracious, she said, where have the children got to? We must take Lucy pretty soon so that George can go and sit with the class. We must catch up with them. She took her brother's arm, and the three moved on, looking about them in the crowd. Curious, Amberson remarked, as they did not immediately discover the young people they sought, even in such a concourse one would think we couldn't fail to see the proprietor. Several hundred proprietors today, Eugene suggested. No, they're only proprietors of the university, said George's uncle. We're looking for the proprietor of the universe. There he is, cried Isabel fondly, not minding the satire at all, and doesn't he look it? Her escorts were still laughing at her when they joined the proprietor of the universe and his pretty friend. And though both Amberson and Eugene declined to explain the cause of their mirth, even upon Lucy's urgent request, the portents of the day were amiable, and the five made a happy party. That is to say four of them made a happy audience for the fifth, and the mood of the fifth was gracious and cheerful. George took no conspicuous part in either the academic or the social celebrations of his class. He seemed to regard both sets of exercises with a tolerant amusement, his own crowd not going in much for either of those sorts of things, as he explained to Lucy. What his crowd had gone in for remained ambiguous, some negligent testimony indicating that, except for an astonishing reliability which they all seemed to have attained in matters relating to musical comedy, they had not gone in for anything. Finally the question one of them put to Lucy in response to investigations of hers seemed to point that way. Don't you think, he said, really, don't you think that being things is rather better than doing things? He said rather better, for rather better, and seemed to do it deliberately with perfect knowledge of what he was doing. Later Lucy mocked him to George, and George refused to smile. He somewhat inclined to such pronunciations himself. This inclination was one of the things that he had acquired in the four years. What else he had acquired, it might have puzzled him to state, had anybody asked him and required a direct reply within a reasonable space of time. He had learned how to pass examinations by cramming, that is, in three or four days and nights he could get into his head enough of a selected fragment of some scientific or philosophical or literary or linguistic subject to reply plausibly to six questions out of ten. He could retain the information necessary for such a feat for just long enough to give a successful performance, then it would evaporate utterly from his brain and leave him undisturbed. George, like his crowd, not only preferred being things to doing things, but had contented himself with four years of being things as a preparation for going on being things. And when Lucy rather shyly pressed him for his friend's probable definition of the things it seemed so superior and beautiful to be, George raised his eyebrows slightly, meaning that she should have understood without explanation. But he did explain. Oh, family and all that, being a gentleman, I suppose. Lucy gave the horizon a long look, but offered no comment. End of Chapter 15