wrestler's-bridge style, on the chair seat.
"They're orange," he said in a strained voice, addressing
the ceiling. He picked up a comer of the tablecloth and put it over
his handsome, deadpan little face.
"Sometimes
he's brilliant and sometimes he's not," Esme said. "Charles,
do sit up!"
Charles
stayed right where he was. He seemed to be holding his breath.
"He
misses our father very much. He was s-l-a-i-n in North Africa."
I
expressed regret to hear it.
Esme
nodded. "Father adored him." She bit reflectively at the
cuticle of her thumb. "He looks very much like my
mother--Charles, I mean. I look exactly like my father." She
went on biting at her cuticle. "My mother was quite a passionate
woman. She was an extrovert. Father was an introvert. They were quite
well mated, though, in a superficial way. To be quite candid, Father
really needed more of an intellectual companion than Mother was. He
was an extremely gifted genius."
I
waited, receptively, for further information, but none came. I looked
down at Charles, who was now resting the side of his face on his
chair seat. When he saw that I was looking at him, he closed his
eyes, sleepily, angelically, then stuck out his tongue--an appendage
of startling length--and gave out what in my country would have been
a glorious tribute to a myopic baseball umpire. It fairly shook the
tearoom.
"Stop
that," Esme said, clearly unshaken. "He saw an American do
it in a fish-and-chips queue, and now he does it whenever he's bored.
Just stop it, now, or I shall send you directly to Miss Megley."
Charles
opened his enormous eyes, as sign that he'd heard his sister's
threat, but otherwise didn't look especially alerted. He closed his
eyes again, and continued to rest the side of his face on the chair
seat.
I
mentioned that maybe he ought to save it--meaning the Bronx
cheer--till he started using his title regularly. That is, if he had
a title, too.
Esme
gave me a long, faintly clinical look. "You have a dry sense of
humor, haven't you?" she said--wistfully. "Father said I
have no sense of humor at all. He said I was unequipped to meet life
because I have no sense of humor."
Watching
her, I lit a cigarette and said I didn't think a sense of humor was
of any use in a real pinch.
"Father
said it was."
This
was a statement of faith, not a contradiction, and I quickly switched
horses. I nodded and said her father had probably taken the long
view, while I was taking the short (whatever that meant).
"Charles
misses him exceedingly," Esme said, after a moment. "He was
an exceedingly lovable man. He was extremely handsome, too. Not that
one's appearance matters greatly, but he was. He had terribly
penetrating eyes, for a man who was intransically kind."
I
nodded. I said I imagined her father had had quite an extraordinary
vocabulary.
"Oh,
yes; quite," said Esme. "He was an archivist--amateur, of
course."
At
that point, I felt an importunate tap, almost a punch, on my upper
arm, from Charles' direction. I turned to him. He was sitting in a
fairly normal position in his chair now, except that he had one knee
tucked under him. "What did one wall say to the other wall?"
he asked shrilly. "It's a riddle!"
I
rolled my eyes reflectively ceilingward and repeated the question
aloud. Then I looked at Charles with a stumped expression and said I
gave up.
"Meet
you at the corner!" came the punch line, at top volume.
It
went over biggest with Charles himself. It struck him as unbearably
funny. In fact, Esme had to come around and pound him on the back, as
if treating him for a coughing spell. "Now, stop that," she
said. She went back to her own seat. "He tells that same riddle
to everyone he meets and has a fit every single time. Usually he
drools when he laughs. Now, just stop, please."
"It's
one of the best riddles I've heard, though," I said, watching
Charles, who was very gradually coming out of it. In response to this
compliment, he sank considerably lower in his chair and again masked
his
"They're orange," he said in a strained voice, addressing
the ceiling. He picked up a comer of the tablecloth and put it over
his handsome, deadpan little face.
"Sometimes
he's brilliant and sometimes he's not," Esme said. "Charles,
do sit up!"
Charles
stayed right where he was. He seemed to be holding his breath.
"He
misses our father very much. He was s-l-a-i-n in North Africa."
I
expressed regret to hear it.
Esme
nodded. "Father adored him." She bit reflectively at the
cuticle of her thumb. "He looks very much like my
mother--Charles, I mean. I look exactly like my father." She
went on biting at her cuticle. "My mother was quite a passionate
woman. She was an extrovert. Father was an introvert. They were quite
well mated, though, in a superficial way. To be quite candid, Father
really needed more of an intellectual companion than Mother was. He
was an extremely gifted genius."
I
waited, receptively, for further information, but none came. I looked
down at Charles, who was now resting the side of his face on his
chair seat. When he saw that I was looking at him, he closed his
eyes, sleepily, angelically, then stuck out his tongue--an appendage
of startling length--and gave out what in my country would have been
a glorious tribute to a myopic baseball umpire. It fairly shook the
tearoom.
"Stop
that," Esme said, clearly unshaken. "He saw an American do
it in a fish-and-chips queue, and now he does it whenever he's bored.
Just stop it, now, or I shall send you directly to Miss Megley."
Charles
opened his enormous eyes, as sign that he'd heard his sister's
threat, but otherwise didn't look especially alerted. He closed his
eyes again, and continued to rest the side of his face on the chair
seat.
I
mentioned that maybe he ought to save it--meaning the Bronx
cheer--till he started using his title regularly. That is, if he had
a title, too.
Esme
gave me a long, faintly clinical look. "You have a dry sense of
humor, haven't you?" she said--wistfully. "Father said I
have no sense of humor at all. He said I was unequipped to meet life
because I have no sense of humor."
Watching
her, I lit a cigarette and said I didn't think a sense of humor was
of any use in a real pinch.
"Father
said it was."
This
was a statement of faith, not a contradiction, and I quickly switched
horses. I nodded and said her father had probably taken the long
view, while I was taking the short (whatever that meant).
"Charles
misses him exceedingly," Esme said, after a moment. "He was
an exceedingly lovable man. He was extremely handsome, too. Not that
one's appearance matters greatly, but he was. He had terribly
penetrating eyes, for a man who was intransically kind."
I
nodded. I said I imagined her father had had quite an extraordinary
vocabulary.
"Oh,
yes; quite," said Esme. "He was an archivist--amateur, of
course."
At
that point, I felt an importunate tap, almost a punch, on my upper
arm, from Charles' direction. I turned to him. He was sitting in a
fairly normal position in his chair now, except that he had one knee
tucked under him. "What did one wall say to the other wall?"
he asked shrilly. "It's a riddle!"
I
rolled my eyes reflectively ceilingward and repeated the question
aloud. Then I looked at Charles with a stumped expression and said I
gave up.
"Meet
you at the corner!" came the punch line, at top volume.
It
went over biggest with Charles himself. It struck him as unbearably
funny. In fact, Esme had to come around and pound him on the back, as
if treating him for a coughing spell. "Now, stop that," she
said. She went back to her own seat. "He tells that same riddle
to everyone he meets and has a fit every single time. Usually he
drools when he laughs. Now, just stop, please."
"It's
one of the best riddles I've heard, though," I said, watching
Charles, who was very gradually coming out of it. In response to this
compliment, he sank considerably lower in his chair and again masked
his
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