Honorable Men by Louis Auchincloss

guest.”
    Only Elihu could say such things without in the least raising his voice.
    â€œI’m sorry, Dad.”
    â€œReally, Chip,” Lars intervened, “is it asking so much of you to stand in the courtyard? It isn’t as if you were committing yourself to anything.”
    There was a considerable silence before Chip replied.
    â€œVery well, I agree to stand in the courtyard. If you, Dad, and you, Ma, agree to say nothing more about it. And do nothing more about it!”
    Elihu now gave his wife his steeliest look. It was brief but effective, and a silent compact was reached. The conversation was turned to Hitler and the Rhineland, and after lunch Chip and Lars drove back to New Haven.
    ***
    Only two weeks later, however, Lars reported a new development to his roommate. The society that was flirting with Lars wanted Chip as well, and Lars had been put on notice, with the greatest discretion, that Elihu Benedict had been in touch with some of his old Bulldog friends to reassure them about Chip. Elihu was evidently endeavoring to convince them that the column in the
News
had been no more than “a violet in the youth of primy nature, forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,” and that Chip, as his name implied, was something off the old block.
    â€œThat does it then,” Chip said grimly. “I shall not stand in Branford Court on Tap Day.”
    â€œShall I stay away with you?”
    â€œYou know you want Keys. Don’t be an ass.”
    It took him some time to persuade Lars that he was not irretrievably committed to his roommate’s cause. And why was Chip so committed? Why did he regard the matter as concerning only him and not Lars, nor indeed any other of his classmates?
    He went to West Seventieth Street in New York that night, but, in an uncharacteristic visit to the bar, he drank so much that he lost the capacity to do anything more. Flora, his favorite of the girls, who was in love with him, sat by him most of the night and listened uncomprehendingly to his rambling.
    â€œI’m not what they think I am,” he told her, again and again. “I never have been. I never will be. But I can’t convince them. ‘Look at him!’ they cry. ‘Can’t you see he’s an angel?’ Even you, Flora, my love. Even you.”
    In the end she put him to bed and lay quietly beside him. The next morning he departed while she was still asleep. He did not even have a hangover.
    Two days later there was a knock at their study door in Berkeley, and Lars opened it and let out a little bark of surprise.
    â€œWhy, Mrs. Benedict! What a happy surprise!”
    â€œBe a good boy, Lars, and leave me alone with Chip.”
    â€œMother, it’s his room, too!”
    But Lars was already out the door, and Chip stood up stiffly when he saw that his mother was looking graver than he had ever remembered her. He saw, too, that it was more than gravity. He could sense the full extent of her desperation in the length of her preparatory pause. It was not like her, indignant, to delay the flood tide of her reproaches. Chip had been deep in Shakespearean tragedy that whole term, and he likened her now to Volumnia, preparing her warrior-son for battle.
    â€œI think you must have found out that your father went to Chicago to attend his annual Bulldog dinner especially on your account.”
    â€œI certainly never asked him to. And I believe he committed himself to do nothing for me in the matter.”
    â€œAnyway, he went. Nothing else matters to him where your future and happiness are concerned.”
    â€œMy happiness? Am I not to judge that for myself? It is my life, isn’t it P Or is it?”
    â€œI was waiting for you to say that. Of course it’s your life. And I can perfectly understand that your father may have gone too far. It may be that the whole matter should have been left to you. But what I believe is not debatable—what I believe even