knew it was only old Christian Brothers. He made up a table of bridge with Elly and Bryan and Felicia and insisted on playing with Felicia. Bridge bored Elly to distraction and Joe had been a vicious opponent.
The idea! Forcing me up to a little slam and then doubling. Eighteen hundred we went down and all he did was laugh!
Elly had been downright wounded. Only the example of Bryan's good manners kept her from tipping over the table. And then Cousin Felicia reaching her long, red-clawed hand across the table to shake with him. That wasn't really so bad, but did Joe have to kiss the palm of her hand and practically make a pass at her?
"And then when the whole lousy evening was over," Elly said aloud, "and I asked him if he'd like to take a little walk, then that big heel yawns and stretches and says ‘Oh, no thanks, I think I'll turn in.' Elly Ames, prize chump. Well, it serves me damned good and right, Elly thought, yanking the comb through her hair. Here he just wants to see that his book gets published and I go thinking it's a big romance. All authors are ego-whatever-it-is, anyway. 'Never mix business with pleasure.' Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I suppose he doesn't think I'm intellectual enough for him. Well, I'm not, and what's more I don't intend to be. He can just go and let old Felicia tell him about having tea with Somerset Maugham. He can take his old book and . . . Maybe I'll call up Pinky or somebody like that. As for that Joe Sullivan . . ."
Elly yanked up the zipper on her old plaid gingham, threw her bathing suit into the wet towel and slammed out of the room. She marched across the hall and burst into Bryan's room. "Bernarr MacFadden, I presume," she said and giggled. A radio was playing softly and Bryan Ames, clad in his pajama bottoms, was supine on the floor executing, more or less in time to Straus's "Southern Roses," an ingenious exercise guaranteed to hit excess fat at the seat, stomach, waistline, calves and thighs where it lived. It had been prescribed by the instructor at the gymnasium where Bryan went thrice weekly to combat the insidious softening that accompanies sedentary jobs.
Bryan leaped up and grinned self-consciously. "Don't you ever knock on doors?" he asked.
"If I did, I'd never get to see sights like this. What are you messing around with this Du Barry Success School stuff for? I think you're a very fine figger of a man, sir." She tweaked a white hair out of his chest. "Not getting any younger, though, are we?"
"Ouch! Go on, beat it, now. I've got some more exercises to do."
"Goodie. I'll watch."
"You will not!”
"Oh, come on, Bryan. Get dressed and take me down to breakfast. You can carry me and that'll do wonders for your biceps."
"Take you down to breakfast? My God, Elly, don't you know the way after twenty-one years?"
"Twenty-two. Oh, come on. Come downstairs with me. I just don't feel like going alone. Mother's there and Felicia's beau and Kathy all gussied up like Mata Hari and . . . Bryan, do you think I'm a slob?"
"How do you mean, Elly?"
"Well, you know. Kind of careless and not well-groomed and . . . Well, here we all are with that Claire being so fashionable you can't stand it. And Felicia all done up as usual. And even old Kath out-doing Felicia. Really, you should see what she has on this morning, it's a kind of bathing suit. Very pretty, I guess, but I'd hate to swim a stroke in it. And shoes that look as though she had a club foot on both feet and . . ."
The radio interrupted them: "When the Marquis de Lafayette sought a safe repository for his priceless French heirlooms, he chose The Knickerbocker Trust Company, America's oldest . . ." Bryan snapped off the radio.
"Elly," he said, putting an arm around her, "I think you're wonderful. I like you the best of all."
"Then will you go down to breakfast with me and go swimming with me after? I'll race you to the raft and even let you win."
"What about your boy friend?"
"What boy friend?"
"Young
The idea! Forcing me up to a little slam and then doubling. Eighteen hundred we went down and all he did was laugh!
Elly had been downright wounded. Only the example of Bryan's good manners kept her from tipping over the table. And then Cousin Felicia reaching her long, red-clawed hand across the table to shake with him. That wasn't really so bad, but did Joe have to kiss the palm of her hand and practically make a pass at her?
"And then when the whole lousy evening was over," Elly said aloud, "and I asked him if he'd like to take a little walk, then that big heel yawns and stretches and says ‘Oh, no thanks, I think I'll turn in.' Elly Ames, prize chump. Well, it serves me damned good and right, Elly thought, yanking the comb through her hair. Here he just wants to see that his book gets published and I go thinking it's a big romance. All authors are ego-whatever-it-is, anyway. 'Never mix business with pleasure.' Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I suppose he doesn't think I'm intellectual enough for him. Well, I'm not, and what's more I don't intend to be. He can just go and let old Felicia tell him about having tea with Somerset Maugham. He can take his old book and . . . Maybe I'll call up Pinky or somebody like that. As for that Joe Sullivan . . ."
Elly yanked up the zipper on her old plaid gingham, threw her bathing suit into the wet towel and slammed out of the room. She marched across the hall and burst into Bryan's room. "Bernarr MacFadden, I presume," she said and giggled. A radio was playing softly and Bryan Ames, clad in his pajama bottoms, was supine on the floor executing, more or less in time to Straus's "Southern Roses," an ingenious exercise guaranteed to hit excess fat at the seat, stomach, waistline, calves and thighs where it lived. It had been prescribed by the instructor at the gymnasium where Bryan went thrice weekly to combat the insidious softening that accompanies sedentary jobs.
Bryan leaped up and grinned self-consciously. "Don't you ever knock on doors?" he asked.
"If I did, I'd never get to see sights like this. What are you messing around with this Du Barry Success School stuff for? I think you're a very fine figger of a man, sir." She tweaked a white hair out of his chest. "Not getting any younger, though, are we?"
"Ouch! Go on, beat it, now. I've got some more exercises to do."
"Goodie. I'll watch."
"You will not!”
"Oh, come on, Bryan. Get dressed and take me down to breakfast. You can carry me and that'll do wonders for your biceps."
"Take you down to breakfast? My God, Elly, don't you know the way after twenty-one years?"
"Twenty-two. Oh, come on. Come downstairs with me. I just don't feel like going alone. Mother's there and Felicia's beau and Kathy all gussied up like Mata Hari and . . . Bryan, do you think I'm a slob?"
"How do you mean, Elly?"
"Well, you know. Kind of careless and not well-groomed and . . . Well, here we all are with that Claire being so fashionable you can't stand it. And Felicia all done up as usual. And even old Kath out-doing Felicia. Really, you should see what she has on this morning, it's a kind of bathing suit. Very pretty, I guess, but I'd hate to swim a stroke in it. And shoes that look as though she had a club foot on both feet and . . ."
The radio interrupted them: "When the Marquis de Lafayette sought a safe repository for his priceless French heirlooms, he chose The Knickerbocker Trust Company, America's oldest . . ." Bryan snapped off the radio.
"Elly," he said, putting an arm around her, "I think you're wonderful. I like you the best of all."
"Then will you go down to breakfast with me and go swimming with me after? I'll race you to the raft and even let you win."
"What about your boy friend?"
"What boy friend?"
"Young
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