Matters of Honor by Louis Begley Page A

so well prepared by her school in New York that she found no need to take much trouble over her courses. I would have liked to know what Henry and Margot actually talked about. Books and coursework? Was he more open with her about Poland and the war? He gave no hint of that, but I did learn that George was not the only man who took Margot out on what Henry called real dates. There was also a Belgian at the business school, a rich fellow given to rushing to New York whenever Margot went home. He is an international playboy, Henry explained, manifestly parroting Margot’s words, not a typical business school grind. George was aware of the Belgian and bore his attentions to Margot stoically. Tolerant equanimity seemed, indeed, to be George’s hallmark in his relationship with Margot. Henry told me, with needless indiscretion, that Margot had explained the strict limits on liberties George could take with her person, and that George had placidly accepted them. Perhaps crew’s rigorous training regime and the saltpeter which, according to rumor, was added to the special diet fed to top athletes facilitated his acceptance. Henry seemed to know that the Belgian pressed his suit with greater fire. George was also notably easygoing about Henry and, at least according to Margot, it was George who had come up with the idea of inviting him to the New Year’s party at the Lenox Driving Club. Your invitation, Henry assured me, was also something George had thought of on his own. I had no reason to doubt the accuracy of the latter statement, since he had spoken about inviting me already at Mario’s party. And yet that harmless comment provoked in me an ugly movement of jealousy—I considered that Henry belonged to me as did also the connection with George and the Berkshires, and momentarily I disliked the alliance that had sprung up between those two without my active participation. I wondered how much Margot’s influence had had to do with the invitation to Henry. A lot, I was inclined to think, although George had spoken to me favorably about Henry soon after they met at Mario’s. That roommate of yours with the funny accent is all right, he said. Margot thinks he’s remarkable. I acquiesced in both judgments. You know, I think he may be a Jew, George pursued. Seeing no reason to feign ignorance, I said he was. So he’s a Jew, George repeated pensively. I didn’t take that as an indication that he was taken aback by the information. It just took a moment to make sense of the new fact. The parents won’t mind, he continued. He’s very polite, and he can talk to Mother about books. Thinking of my father’s strictures about Jews at our own country club and old Gummy’s views, I asked George how he thought Henry would go over with the seniors at the very grand Driving Club. It was not by choice that my parents weren’t members there. I don’t care what those mummies think, he replied. The parents don’t either. I absorbed George’s statement in silence. Once again he showed himself to be a far more decent fellow than I had imagined. There was another aspect of his reply that was worthy of note: clearly setting yourself against the opinions of others was easier if you were rich and occupied an impregnable social position.
    Like Henry, I had unexpectedly every reason to think well of George. He followed up on what I had feared might have been perfunctory party talk and invited me the very next day to lunch at the Chinese restaurant on Oxford Street. We began to see each other regularly, especially as we were taking the same English literature course, and he had trouble with the required weekly essay. Often, he wanted to see me to ask for my help with what he had written. Otherwise, we gossiped about the Berkshires. We knew the same people, although sometimes from different perspectives. I decided I had better tell him what Mr. Hibble had said about my adoption. George shook his head and said, Hibble is a lunatic. I mean