I don’t recall our having any boyfriends among the drivers. We always felt that they were a little…well…old. I recall that we preferred younger men…say, the boys we met in school.”
“They’re so puerile,” she said.
I jumped. “I suppose they are,” I said faintly.
“It’s nice having a
man
around,” she added.
“Has your mother met him?”
“No,” she said, looking at me. “You don’t deliver ice to the front door.”
“Where do you go to school?” I asked desperately.
“I go to a private school,” she said. Her voice took on that lifelessness again. “School is such a bore,” she said.
“What do you learn there?”
“French. And music.”
“Do you like French? I remember I used to hate it, in college.”
She looked at me severely. “French is the mark of a true lady.”
“Your mother doesn’t speak French. Is she a true lady?”
“My mother does so speak French. She learned when we were in Paris after her divorce. She said she would have to know a few words anyway. You don’t need more than that.”
“And music?” I said.
The opening of the door interrupted her, and we both turned to see her mother entering. The little girl held out her hand to me, and I shook it weakly, and then, smiling at her mother, she went to the door, stopping to say: “Mother, this lady and I have had such a nice chat, while we were waiting for you.” Then she smiled again at me, and closed the door quietly behind her.
“Such a sweet child,” I said.
“And so clever, too,” murmured her mother. And then to me, gaily: “But,
you,
my dear! How are
you
?”
Gaudeamus Igitur
Although she went first of all to the hill beyond the old cemetery, it was too wet to sit on the ground and there were children walking sedately up the hill in a long line, following one another in solemn procession; five of them. She put her scarf on a rock and sat down, realizing it would be difficult to sit there for even as much as the few minutes she owed the hill, seeing already as she sat down the uneasy perching, her feet braced in the mud, and the ungraceful rising, with the hem of her dress caught in the grass, her self-conscious duty completed, nothing solved.
I’ve got to think, she had told herself; decide what to do. Go somewhere and sit down quietly and think sweetly and logically and come home at peace. Not, however, on this wet, windy hill with children eyeing her cautiously in a long row against the sky. Five of them, three boys and a girl and a small, unidentifiable one; she disliked getting up from the rock while they watched her.
Now, she thought, putting her shoulder up to hide the children. Now what are we going to do? There was nothing to do, turning to see if the children were still watching, nothing to do but what she was going to do anyway. “Might as well go ahead, then,” she said aloud, and stood up quickly, realizing when she was standing that the children were watching and her skirt was swinging mud against her stockings. “Nothing to do,” she said as loud as she dared, and started down the hill, hurrying, as she felt the children moving down slowly to inspect the rock where she had been sitting, possibly shouting something unkind after her.
She knew how to go, and where, but she minded going with her hair uncombed and mud on her clothes. “They’ll have to get used to it,” she said, and felt her footsteps going slower on the pavement. There was no one around she knew; she might be going to call on someone in the city, or to the American consul in a strange country. The houses passed by her quickly; they registered faintly against her mind, trying to delay her. She had been inside many of these houses in three years; as she passed them, her mind swiftly set up a partial interior for each: one had heavy walnut furniture and antiques in a dark room; another was just a hall, with a copy of
Life
on a table; one was a room cleared for a fraternity dance, a punchbowl set on a bench
“They’re so puerile,” she said.
I jumped. “I suppose they are,” I said faintly.
“It’s nice having a
man
around,” she added.
“Has your mother met him?”
“No,” she said, looking at me. “You don’t deliver ice to the front door.”
“Where do you go to school?” I asked desperately.
“I go to a private school,” she said. Her voice took on that lifelessness again. “School is such a bore,” she said.
“What do you learn there?”
“French. And music.”
“Do you like French? I remember I used to hate it, in college.”
She looked at me severely. “French is the mark of a true lady.”
“Your mother doesn’t speak French. Is she a true lady?”
“My mother does so speak French. She learned when we were in Paris after her divorce. She said she would have to know a few words anyway. You don’t need more than that.”
“And music?” I said.
The opening of the door interrupted her, and we both turned to see her mother entering. The little girl held out her hand to me, and I shook it weakly, and then, smiling at her mother, she went to the door, stopping to say: “Mother, this lady and I have had such a nice chat, while we were waiting for you.” Then she smiled again at me, and closed the door quietly behind her.
“Such a sweet child,” I said.
“And so clever, too,” murmured her mother. And then to me, gaily: “But,
you,
my dear! How are
you
?”
Gaudeamus Igitur
Although she went first of all to the hill beyond the old cemetery, it was too wet to sit on the ground and there were children walking sedately up the hill in a long line, following one another in solemn procession; five of them. She put her scarf on a rock and sat down, realizing it would be difficult to sit there for even as much as the few minutes she owed the hill, seeing already as she sat down the uneasy perching, her feet braced in the mud, and the ungraceful rising, with the hem of her dress caught in the grass, her self-conscious duty completed, nothing solved.
I’ve got to think, she had told herself; decide what to do. Go somewhere and sit down quietly and think sweetly and logically and come home at peace. Not, however, on this wet, windy hill with children eyeing her cautiously in a long row against the sky. Five of them, three boys and a girl and a small, unidentifiable one; she disliked getting up from the rock while they watched her.
Now, she thought, putting her shoulder up to hide the children. Now what are we going to do? There was nothing to do, turning to see if the children were still watching, nothing to do but what she was going to do anyway. “Might as well go ahead, then,” she said aloud, and stood up quickly, realizing when she was standing that the children were watching and her skirt was swinging mud against her stockings. “Nothing to do,” she said as loud as she dared, and started down the hill, hurrying, as she felt the children moving down slowly to inspect the rock where she had been sitting, possibly shouting something unkind after her.
She knew how to go, and where, but she minded going with her hair uncombed and mud on her clothes. “They’ll have to get used to it,” she said, and felt her footsteps going slower on the pavement. There was no one around she knew; she might be going to call on someone in the city, or to the American consul in a strange country. The houses passed by her quickly; they registered faintly against her mind, trying to delay her. She had been inside many of these houses in three years; as she passed them, her mind swiftly set up a partial interior for each: one had heavy walnut furniture and antiques in a dark room; another was just a hall, with a copy of
Life
on a table; one was a room cleared for a fraternity dance, a punchbowl set on a bench
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