"Pocahontas" was a steady ship, she just
said: "You'll have to look after me in certain ways—like Uncle
Hurlbird is looked after. I will tell you how to do it." And then
she stepped over the sill, as if she were stepping on board a boat.
I suppose she had burnt hers!
I had, no doubt, eye-openers enough. When we re-entered the
Hurlbird mansion at eight o'clock the Hurlbirds were just
exhausted. Florence had a hard, triumphant air. We had got married
about four in the morning and had sat about in the woods above the
town till then, listening to a mocking-bird imitate an old tom-cat.
So I guess Florence had not found getting married to me a very
stimulating process. I had not found anything much more inspiring
to say than how glad I was, with variations. I think I was too
dazed. Well, the Hurlbirds were too dazed to say much. We had
breakfast together, and then Florence went to pack her grips and
things. Old Hurlbird took the opportunity to read me a full-blooded
lecture, in the style of an American oration, as to the perils for
young American girlhood lurking in the European jungle. He said
that Paris was full of snakes in the grass, of which he had had
bitter experience. He concluded, as they always do, poor, dear old
things, with the aspiration that all American women should one day
be sexless—though that is not the way they put it.. ..
Well, we made the ship all right by one-thirty—an there was a
tempest blowing. That helped Florence a good deal. For we were not
ten minutes out from Sandy Hook before Florence went down into her
cabin and her heart took her. An agitated stewardess came running
up to me, and I went running down. I got my directions how to
behave to my wife. Most of them came from her, though it was the
ship doctor who discreetly suggested to me that I had better
refrain from manifestations of affection. I was ready enough. I
was, of course, full of remorse. It occurred to me that her heart
was the reason for the Hurlbirds' mysterious desire to keep their
youngest and dearest unmarried. Of course, they would be too
refined to put the motive into words. They were old stock New
Englanders. They would not want to have to suggest that a husband
must not kiss the back of his wife's neck. They would not like to
suggest that he might, for the matter of that. I wonder, though,
how Florence got the doctor to enter the conspiracy—the several
doctors.
Of course her heart squeaked a bit—she had the same
configuration of the lungs as her Uncle Hurlbird. And, in his
company, she must have heard a great deal of heart talk from
specialists. Anyhow, she and they tied me pretty well down—and
Jimmy, of course, that dreary boy—what in the world did she see in
him? He was lugubrious, silent, morose. He had no talent as a
painter. He was very sallow and dark, and he never shaved
sufficiently. He met us at Havre, and he proceeded to make himself
useful for the next two years, during which he lived in our flat in
Paris, whether we were there or not. He studied painting at
Julien's, or some such place....
That fellow had his hands always in the pockets of his odious,
square-shouldered, broad-hipped, American coats, and his dark eyes
were always full of ominous appearances. He was, besides, too fat.
Why, I was much the better man....
And I daresay Florence would have given me the better. She
showed signs of it. I think, perhaps, the enigmatic smile with
which she used to look back at me over her shoulder when she went
into the bathing place was a sort of invitation. I have mentioned
that. It was as if she were saying: "I am going in here. I am going
to stand so stripped and white and straight—and you are a man...."
Perhaps it was that....
No, she cannot have liked that fellow long. He looked like
sallow putty. I understand that he had been slim and dark and very
graceful at the time of her first disgrace. But, loafing about in
Paris, on her pocket-money and on the allowance that old Hurlbird
made him to keep out of
said: "You'll have to look after me in certain ways—like Uncle
Hurlbird is looked after. I will tell you how to do it." And then
she stepped over the sill, as if she were stepping on board a boat.
I suppose she had burnt hers!
I had, no doubt, eye-openers enough. When we re-entered the
Hurlbird mansion at eight o'clock the Hurlbirds were just
exhausted. Florence had a hard, triumphant air. We had got married
about four in the morning and had sat about in the woods above the
town till then, listening to a mocking-bird imitate an old tom-cat.
So I guess Florence had not found getting married to me a very
stimulating process. I had not found anything much more inspiring
to say than how glad I was, with variations. I think I was too
dazed. Well, the Hurlbirds were too dazed to say much. We had
breakfast together, and then Florence went to pack her grips and
things. Old Hurlbird took the opportunity to read me a full-blooded
lecture, in the style of an American oration, as to the perils for
young American girlhood lurking in the European jungle. He said
that Paris was full of snakes in the grass, of which he had had
bitter experience. He concluded, as they always do, poor, dear old
things, with the aspiration that all American women should one day
be sexless—though that is not the way they put it.. ..
Well, we made the ship all right by one-thirty—an there was a
tempest blowing. That helped Florence a good deal. For we were not
ten minutes out from Sandy Hook before Florence went down into her
cabin and her heart took her. An agitated stewardess came running
up to me, and I went running down. I got my directions how to
behave to my wife. Most of them came from her, though it was the
ship doctor who discreetly suggested to me that I had better
refrain from manifestations of affection. I was ready enough. I
was, of course, full of remorse. It occurred to me that her heart
was the reason for the Hurlbirds' mysterious desire to keep their
youngest and dearest unmarried. Of course, they would be too
refined to put the motive into words. They were old stock New
Englanders. They would not want to have to suggest that a husband
must not kiss the back of his wife's neck. They would not like to
suggest that he might, for the matter of that. I wonder, though,
how Florence got the doctor to enter the conspiracy—the several
doctors.
Of course her heart squeaked a bit—she had the same
configuration of the lungs as her Uncle Hurlbird. And, in his
company, she must have heard a great deal of heart talk from
specialists. Anyhow, she and they tied me pretty well down—and
Jimmy, of course, that dreary boy—what in the world did she see in
him? He was lugubrious, silent, morose. He had no talent as a
painter. He was very sallow and dark, and he never shaved
sufficiently. He met us at Havre, and he proceeded to make himself
useful for the next two years, during which he lived in our flat in
Paris, whether we were there or not. He studied painting at
Julien's, or some such place....
That fellow had his hands always in the pockets of his odious,
square-shouldered, broad-hipped, American coats, and his dark eyes
were always full of ominous appearances. He was, besides, too fat.
Why, I was much the better man....
And I daresay Florence would have given me the better. She
showed signs of it. I think, perhaps, the enigmatic smile with
which she used to look back at me over her shoulder when she went
into the bathing place was a sort of invitation. I have mentioned
that. It was as if she were saying: "I am going in here. I am going
to stand so stripped and white and straight—and you are a man...."
Perhaps it was that....
No, she cannot have liked that fellow long. He looked like
sallow putty. I understand that he had been slim and dark and very
graceful at the time of her first disgrace. But, loafing about in
Paris, on her pocket-money and on the allowance that old Hurlbird
made him to keep out of
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