back toward the kitchen and then went in to Gregory. She stood watching him and thinking about the measuring stick.
But I won’t let him, I mustn’t, I must make him see it. This is the danger point for all of us, right here, this first lovely inch of new territory where plenty of money lies at our feet. “Gregory,” she whispered.
He stirred, but went on sleeping. How unmarked his face always looked when his eyes were closed, how tranquil and contented. How wonderful it was that he was not a restless man like Thorn. They were so unlike, and yet able to remain so close, as if each needed the characteristics of the other to become a complete person. Would Gregory agree that for all Thorn’s big hearty manner, he was a sad man, seeking, searching, never at rest? She had begun to think that about Thorn the day she had been downtown and had dropped in at his office and then let him persuade her to go along to his club where he was to be in charge of a luncheon meeting. She had watched and listened and applauded with the rest, but she had guessed the truth. If it were the truth.
“Gregory,” she said again. “Wake up.”
He opened his eyes. “Hi.”
“Here’s a telegram.”
“Who from?”
She gave it to him and said, “Whom from.”
“Nonsense.” He put on his horn-rim glasses and held the message so she could read it with him. It was from Ed Barnard: “NOW MORE PEOPLE WILL KNOW. CAN YOU GET IN HERE THIS MORNING ?”
“That Ed,” Gregory said after a minute. “I’ll get up and get started.”
“It’s nearly noon already.”
“Five hours isn’t enough, but all right.” He got up, yawning.
“Five?”
“I did the damn foolest thing you ever heard of after you fell asleep.”
“With a yardstick?”
He looked blank. “And the most conceited thing,” he said, without apology. “I read a hundred pages of the manuscript.”
She smiled. “Why shouldn’t you?”
“Pretending I was one of the judges at B.S.B.,” he went on, “coming on everything for the first time. It sort of worked too. Everything read differently.”
“Better?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I honestly don’t.”
Without transition she said, “Darling, we had to do college for Hat, and we will get an apartment, but we can’t begin to say, well, the icebox too, and well, just a small car and maybe just a cheap fur coat. We can’t.”
“We won’t say all that.”
He glanced uneasily about the room, avoiding her eyes, and she thought, His mind is about as hard to read as a headline in the Times. She waited for him to look at her but he didn’t. “Where’d you write down the measurements?”
“What measurements?”
“Gregory, really!” She laughed and he looked aggrieved and then unwillingly amused.
“You’re too damn smart,” he said.
“The things I want ,” she went on, suddenly intense, “aren’t things you buy in stores and wrap up and send home, anyway.”
“No,” he said.
“For the next five years what I really want is to never see you interrupt a manuscript every minute to do reviews and articles—”
“And me, never to see you add up the stubs twice over before you dare to write a check for six dollars—”
“And you not to go to the Public Library if you need the Britannica—”
“Imagine seeing all the plays we want to.”
“And hearing all the concerts.”
“We might take a tourist boat to Europe sometime.”
“Oh, Gregory,” she cried, “let’s remember, let’s don’t forget, let’s—”
While she was speaking, he came toward her and put his arms around her and leaned his head hard against hers. The thick earpiece of his glasses hurt her temple, but she didn’t move back or say anything.
If not Sam Goldwyn, Luther Digby mused, then maybe Darryl Zanuck. He would rather get to Zanuck first, but Alan Brown’s brother was married to a relative of Mrs. Goldwyn, so that call should be a cinch, whereas it might take finesse and proper introductions to
But I won’t let him, I mustn’t, I must make him see it. This is the danger point for all of us, right here, this first lovely inch of new territory where plenty of money lies at our feet. “Gregory,” she whispered.
He stirred, but went on sleeping. How unmarked his face always looked when his eyes were closed, how tranquil and contented. How wonderful it was that he was not a restless man like Thorn. They were so unlike, and yet able to remain so close, as if each needed the characteristics of the other to become a complete person. Would Gregory agree that for all Thorn’s big hearty manner, he was a sad man, seeking, searching, never at rest? She had begun to think that about Thorn the day she had been downtown and had dropped in at his office and then let him persuade her to go along to his club where he was to be in charge of a luncheon meeting. She had watched and listened and applauded with the rest, but she had guessed the truth. If it were the truth.
“Gregory,” she said again. “Wake up.”
He opened his eyes. “Hi.”
“Here’s a telegram.”
“Who from?”
She gave it to him and said, “Whom from.”
“Nonsense.” He put on his horn-rim glasses and held the message so she could read it with him. It was from Ed Barnard: “NOW MORE PEOPLE WILL KNOW. CAN YOU GET IN HERE THIS MORNING ?”
“That Ed,” Gregory said after a minute. “I’ll get up and get started.”
“It’s nearly noon already.”
“Five hours isn’t enough, but all right.” He got up, yawning.
“Five?”
“I did the damn foolest thing you ever heard of after you fell asleep.”
“With a yardstick?”
He looked blank. “And the most conceited thing,” he said, without apology. “I read a hundred pages of the manuscript.”
She smiled. “Why shouldn’t you?”
“Pretending I was one of the judges at B.S.B.,” he went on, “coming on everything for the first time. It sort of worked too. Everything read differently.”
“Better?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I honestly don’t.”
Without transition she said, “Darling, we had to do college for Hat, and we will get an apartment, but we can’t begin to say, well, the icebox too, and well, just a small car and maybe just a cheap fur coat. We can’t.”
“We won’t say all that.”
He glanced uneasily about the room, avoiding her eyes, and she thought, His mind is about as hard to read as a headline in the Times. She waited for him to look at her but he didn’t. “Where’d you write down the measurements?”
“What measurements?”
“Gregory, really!” She laughed and he looked aggrieved and then unwillingly amused.
“You’re too damn smart,” he said.
“The things I want ,” she went on, suddenly intense, “aren’t things you buy in stores and wrap up and send home, anyway.”
“No,” he said.
“For the next five years what I really want is to never see you interrupt a manuscript every minute to do reviews and articles—”
“And me, never to see you add up the stubs twice over before you dare to write a check for six dollars—”
“And you not to go to the Public Library if you need the Britannica—”
“Imagine seeing all the plays we want to.”
“And hearing all the concerts.”
“We might take a tourist boat to Europe sometime.”
“Oh, Gregory,” she cried, “let’s remember, let’s don’t forget, let’s—”
While she was speaking, he came toward her and put his arms around her and leaned his head hard against hers. The thick earpiece of his glasses hurt her temple, but she didn’t move back or say anything.
If not Sam Goldwyn, Luther Digby mused, then maybe Darryl Zanuck. He would rather get to Zanuck first, but Alan Brown’s brother was married to a relative of Mrs. Goldwyn, so that call should be a cinch, whereas it might take finesse and proper introductions to
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