room. Not Sarah. Sally.
8
FIRST ARRIVALS
It was Saturday, the last day in July.
“No one is going to come,” Mrs. Peel said gloomily. She had reached the stage of all hostesses who have prepared too well and now only have to wait. “Except Esther Park. And that’s almost no one.”
“Nonsense,” Sally Bly said cheerfully. “The others were just too busy to let you know how they are arriving. Writers are always so preoccupied.”
Mrs. Peel agreed. Then she looked down at the list of names in her hand. She knew it, and yet she felt she didn’t know it. It would be awful if she were to start talking to a novelist about his short stories.
“Yet, somehow,” Sally said, looking out of the sitting-room window and admiring the perfect evening, “somehow I wish they weren’t coming.”
“Sarah!” Mrs. Peel was shocked into forgetting her friend’s new name. That would be very selfish of us.”
“It might be nice to be selfish for one summer,” Sally said, quite unrepentant. “Whenever you discover anything you like, Margaret, you always rush to share it with others. Really, I thought Europe had cured you of that.”
“You never used to object.” Then she handed the list with a smile to Sally. “Would you mind? I just want to be sure I know them all as soon as they arrive. New faces and new names are so nerve-racking when they come together.” She looked apologetic. “I know it’s silly of me,” she said.
Sally took the list without any enthusiasm. “All right,” she said, “we’ll do our homework. And then we’ll go up to the corral. Ned is practising calf-roping tonight. There’s a rodeo in August in Sweetwater, you know. Bert has entered for bull-dogging, I hear.”
“That will be interesting for our guests.”
“And for us,” Sally said wryly. “We come into the picture too sometimes. Now let’s see this list. The women first. We’ve met Carla Brightjoy. She attended these meetings of the New Trends in Literature Group last winter in New York.”
“Brown hair, draped long. Glasses. Fantastic hats all filled with bits and pieces. She writes short stories.”
“All the women do. They mentioned it when they accepted our invitations.”
“Such a good idea of yours, Sally, to ask them to give us any details they’d pass on to their publishers. It makes them less strange to us.”
“Now what about Mimi Bassinbrook?” Sally asked, glancing out of the window. If she could hurry Margaret there would be still time for a ride this evening. Jim Brent would be waiting at the corral.
“I’ve heard about her, I seem to remember. A Southerner?”
“From South Brooklyn, I’d imagine. Don’t you remember her at Prender’s parties? She has red hair and green eyes. Young. Excellent figure. Dresses with what is called a flair. Short stories, she says, but I’m sure she’ll write an historical novel. She could project herself into it.”
“Mimi Bassinbrook...” Mrs. Peel said thoughtfully. “Now, how did I never notice her?”
“She was always surrounded by a phalanx of men, darling.”
“She must have talent. I mean, Prender said all these writers had talent.”
“Plenty of talent,” Sally agreed with a smile. “Now who’s the third woman?”
“Esther Park. She wrote us ten pages and told us nothing really. She mentioned short stories, novels, and plays. Just like that! Prolific... Frankly, I’ve never even heard of her.”
“Nor I. I only know that she kept on talking when I telephoned her in New York. She accepted right away, I remember.”
“Oh.”
“Now the men,” Sally went on quickly. “We have met two of them, thank goodness, so who is the third one?”
But Margaret Peel refused to be hurried. She counted them one by one on her fingers as she recited, “First, Karl Koffing. He said he was working on a novel about New York. Born in Red Gulch, Iowa. Age twenty-four. Thin and dark and intensely critical of everything. Unfit for military service, wasn’t
8
FIRST ARRIVALS
It was Saturday, the last day in July.
“No one is going to come,” Mrs. Peel said gloomily. She had reached the stage of all hostesses who have prepared too well and now only have to wait. “Except Esther Park. And that’s almost no one.”
“Nonsense,” Sally Bly said cheerfully. “The others were just too busy to let you know how they are arriving. Writers are always so preoccupied.”
Mrs. Peel agreed. Then she looked down at the list of names in her hand. She knew it, and yet she felt she didn’t know it. It would be awful if she were to start talking to a novelist about his short stories.
“Yet, somehow,” Sally said, looking out of the sitting-room window and admiring the perfect evening, “somehow I wish they weren’t coming.”
“Sarah!” Mrs. Peel was shocked into forgetting her friend’s new name. That would be very selfish of us.”
“It might be nice to be selfish for one summer,” Sally said, quite unrepentant. “Whenever you discover anything you like, Margaret, you always rush to share it with others. Really, I thought Europe had cured you of that.”
“You never used to object.” Then she handed the list with a smile to Sally. “Would you mind? I just want to be sure I know them all as soon as they arrive. New faces and new names are so nerve-racking when they come together.” She looked apologetic. “I know it’s silly of me,” she said.
Sally took the list without any enthusiasm. “All right,” she said, “we’ll do our homework. And then we’ll go up to the corral. Ned is practising calf-roping tonight. There’s a rodeo in August in Sweetwater, you know. Bert has entered for bull-dogging, I hear.”
“That will be interesting for our guests.”
“And for us,” Sally said wryly. “We come into the picture too sometimes. Now let’s see this list. The women first. We’ve met Carla Brightjoy. She attended these meetings of the New Trends in Literature Group last winter in New York.”
“Brown hair, draped long. Glasses. Fantastic hats all filled with bits and pieces. She writes short stories.”
“All the women do. They mentioned it when they accepted our invitations.”
“Such a good idea of yours, Sally, to ask them to give us any details they’d pass on to their publishers. It makes them less strange to us.”
“Now what about Mimi Bassinbrook?” Sally asked, glancing out of the window. If she could hurry Margaret there would be still time for a ride this evening. Jim Brent would be waiting at the corral.
“I’ve heard about her, I seem to remember. A Southerner?”
“From South Brooklyn, I’d imagine. Don’t you remember her at Prender’s parties? She has red hair and green eyes. Young. Excellent figure. Dresses with what is called a flair. Short stories, she says, but I’m sure she’ll write an historical novel. She could project herself into it.”
“Mimi Bassinbrook...” Mrs. Peel said thoughtfully. “Now, how did I never notice her?”
“She was always surrounded by a phalanx of men, darling.”
“She must have talent. I mean, Prender said all these writers had talent.”
“Plenty of talent,” Sally agreed with a smile. “Now who’s the third woman?”
“Esther Park. She wrote us ten pages and told us nothing really. She mentioned short stories, novels, and plays. Just like that! Prolific... Frankly, I’ve never even heard of her.”
“Nor I. I only know that she kept on talking when I telephoned her in New York. She accepted right away, I remember.”
“Oh.”
“Now the men,” Sally went on quickly. “We have met two of them, thank goodness, so who is the third one?”
But Margaret Peel refused to be hurried. She counted them one by one on her fingers as she recited, “First, Karl Koffing. He said he was working on a novel about New York. Born in Red Gulch, Iowa. Age twenty-four. Thin and dark and intensely critical of everything. Unfit for military service, wasn’t
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