he? That’s why he couldn’t go overseas. Poor Karl...”
“I’ve never heard him be critical about that,” Sally said, interrupting Mrs. Peel’s sad thoughts about young men who suffered from bad health and the tragedy of it.
“Then, next, there’s Earl Grubbock,” Mrs. Peel went on, ignoring Sally’s smile. “He’s twenty-seven. Ex-Army. Sergeant, wasn’t he? Fair-haired, but losing some of it. And he has put on a lot of weight, hasn’t he? I suppose all that muscle which sergeants have, just turned to—”
“Writes about Southern hardship,” Sally prompted her.
“Yes. Wanted to know if we were being ‘restricted,’ because if so he wasn’t coming. Whatever did you answer to that, Sally?”
“I wrote we were definitely restricted to writers who hadn’t been published yet. No reply so far. Perhaps he isn’t coming, but I hope he does. He can write, if only he wouldn’t discard every manuscript half-way. He seems to get discouraged, but he will choose discouraging subjects.”
“I’m sure that kind of attitude is all a matter of metabolism,” Mrs. Peel said. “Have you talked over the menus you’ve planned with Mrs. Gunn? Of course, she is a very plain cook.” She paused, and then added wistfully, “Do you remember Rapallo and the food we served there?”
“Don’t worry—our guests won’t starve.”
“Simple food at regular hours. Plenty of sleep,” Mrs. Peel murmured, as if persuading herself. “That’s what we all need after a winter in New York. And I am sure we were right not to worry about wines. As for other drinks—well, cocktails can be disastrous at an altitude of six thousand feet. Or do you think they’ll expect such things?”
“We can offer them beer or a mild Scotch in the evenings. And if they want real Western life they can save up for a Saturday night in Sweetwater as the cowboys do. But how did we get there? Ah, yes, Earl Grubbock...”
“Yes,” Mrs. Peel said, equally thoughtful. “Well, now, the third man is Robert O’Farlan. Working on a war novel. He’s rather old for that, isn’t he? Fifty, he said. But perhaps he was in OSS. I’ve always wanted to meet someone important in OSS. You know, I’m quite sure that the nice Sicilian who smuggled us so cleverly to North Africa must have been an American. No one else in the wide world could speak Siziliano with such a delightful Chicago inflection.”
“Important OSS men don’t talk. Any who do weren’t important. But why should Mr. O’Farlan be OSS?”
“Well, he could hardly be a parachutist—not at fifty. And he was very uncommunicative about himself. All we know is his age, his address, and that he is writing a war novel. Of course, he might have been Navy.”
“We’ll know soon enough. Well, that’s all.” Sally returned the list to the folder marked “urgent” which lay on the writing-desk. “But they sound so much more than six somehow. Come along, Margaret; we’ve worried too much about all this.”
“I may as well admit I’m nervous; this is our first house-party in America. Oh, I do hope it goes well! I suppose writers are much the same all the world over. They will work in the mornings, read in the afternoons, and talk together after dinner. It will be pleasant to hear some intelligent conversation again.”
Sally laughed. “Thank you, darling. And what about the great outdoors? Or is it just to be a background for intelligent conversation?”
“Oh, it will be there,” Mrs. Peel said vaguely, as she led the way to the kitchen to get two carrots for Golden Boy. “It always is. But you mustn’t judge others by yourself, Sally. We don’t all throw ourselves with such abandon into the Wild West.” She glanced at Sally’s tight blue jeans and then at her own tweed skirt. Three more pounds, she thought, and I can risk it.
“Golden Boy needs exercise. Why don’t you try him out tonight?”
“I’m getting to know him first.” And she also had to finish the
“I’ve never heard him be critical about that,” Sally said, interrupting Mrs. Peel’s sad thoughts about young men who suffered from bad health and the tragedy of it.
“Then, next, there’s Earl Grubbock,” Mrs. Peel went on, ignoring Sally’s smile. “He’s twenty-seven. Ex-Army. Sergeant, wasn’t he? Fair-haired, but losing some of it. And he has put on a lot of weight, hasn’t he? I suppose all that muscle which sergeants have, just turned to—”
“Writes about Southern hardship,” Sally prompted her.
“Yes. Wanted to know if we were being ‘restricted,’ because if so he wasn’t coming. Whatever did you answer to that, Sally?”
“I wrote we were definitely restricted to writers who hadn’t been published yet. No reply so far. Perhaps he isn’t coming, but I hope he does. He can write, if only he wouldn’t discard every manuscript half-way. He seems to get discouraged, but he will choose discouraging subjects.”
“I’m sure that kind of attitude is all a matter of metabolism,” Mrs. Peel said. “Have you talked over the menus you’ve planned with Mrs. Gunn? Of course, she is a very plain cook.” She paused, and then added wistfully, “Do you remember Rapallo and the food we served there?”
“Don’t worry—our guests won’t starve.”
“Simple food at regular hours. Plenty of sleep,” Mrs. Peel murmured, as if persuading herself. “That’s what we all need after a winter in New York. And I am sure we were right not to worry about wines. As for other drinks—well, cocktails can be disastrous at an altitude of six thousand feet. Or do you think they’ll expect such things?”
“We can offer them beer or a mild Scotch in the evenings. And if they want real Western life they can save up for a Saturday night in Sweetwater as the cowboys do. But how did we get there? Ah, yes, Earl Grubbock...”
“Yes,” Mrs. Peel said, equally thoughtful. “Well, now, the third man is Robert O’Farlan. Working on a war novel. He’s rather old for that, isn’t he? Fifty, he said. But perhaps he was in OSS. I’ve always wanted to meet someone important in OSS. You know, I’m quite sure that the nice Sicilian who smuggled us so cleverly to North Africa must have been an American. No one else in the wide world could speak Siziliano with such a delightful Chicago inflection.”
“Important OSS men don’t talk. Any who do weren’t important. But why should Mr. O’Farlan be OSS?”
“Well, he could hardly be a parachutist—not at fifty. And he was very uncommunicative about himself. All we know is his age, his address, and that he is writing a war novel. Of course, he might have been Navy.”
“We’ll know soon enough. Well, that’s all.” Sally returned the list to the folder marked “urgent” which lay on the writing-desk. “But they sound so much more than six somehow. Come along, Margaret; we’ve worried too much about all this.”
“I may as well admit I’m nervous; this is our first house-party in America. Oh, I do hope it goes well! I suppose writers are much the same all the world over. They will work in the mornings, read in the afternoons, and talk together after dinner. It will be pleasant to hear some intelligent conversation again.”
Sally laughed. “Thank you, darling. And what about the great outdoors? Or is it just to be a background for intelligent conversation?”
“Oh, it will be there,” Mrs. Peel said vaguely, as she led the way to the kitchen to get two carrots for Golden Boy. “It always is. But you mustn’t judge others by yourself, Sally. We don’t all throw ourselves with such abandon into the Wild West.” She glanced at Sally’s tight blue jeans and then at her own tweed skirt. Three more pounds, she thought, and I can risk it.
“Golden Boy needs exercise. Why don’t you try him out tonight?”
“I’m getting to know him first.” And she also had to finish the
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