crown. If you could get the shawl off her and take the hair apart, she might be great. But a tall, strong-looking man named Rex hovered close beside her, smiling patiently while she had her littleexchange with Michael, and it was clear that Rex was the only man in the world, for the present, who knew what she was like without the shawl and the braid.
“Well,” Michael said, “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your work, but that’s only because I don’t keep up nearly as much as I—”
“Oh, no,” Marjorie Grant answered him. “I’ve only had one book and it’s just a little Wesleyan University Press sort of thing.”
“Well, but Wesleyan’s one of the finest—”
“Yes, I know people say that, but in my case it doesn’t really apply. One reviewer called it ‘kittenish,’ and after I stopped crying I began to see what he meant. I’m working on some much better stuff now, though, so I hope you’ll—”
“Oh, I certainly will,” Michael told her. “And I’ll get the first book, too, whether you like it or not.”
“Marjorie?” Rex inquired. “Want to move on into the studio and look at some of Tom’s new things?”
When they’d gone Michael felt a happy glow from her praise – the line she’d quoted had never seemed especially good before – though he wished he could have found a way to ask which of the poems hadn’t struck her as wholly successful.
And after another drink or two, watching Tom Nelson move courteously among his guests, he decided he didn’t really mind the paratrooper’s jacket. Most of these people must surely know that Nelson hadn’t been an airborne soldier; and what if they didn’t? The war had been over for eleven or twelve years; wasn’t it about time for people to wear whatever they felt like? Wasn’t it essentially dumb and “square” to think otherwise? And maybe, in all innocence, Nelson did like it because of the pockets. What would be the matter with that?
“Know something?” Lucy asked, drifting up to his side anhour or so later. Her eyes were unnaturally bright. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many intelligent-looking people in one place in my whole life.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Well,” she amended, “with the exception of those two over there near the wall. They’re awful – I can’t imagine where the Nelsons ever dug them up, or why, but I’m glad Bill Brock is stuck with them now: they deserve each other.” One was a sturdy young man whose dark hair kept falling almost into his eyes as he talked; the other was a plain girl in a cheap dress that looked uncomfortable and moist at the armpits. Both their faces were so earnest and humorless, so charged with the effort of making their conversational points clear at all cost, that they didn’t seem to belong in this gathering. “Their name’s Damon,” Lucy said. “He’s a linotype operator in Pleasantville and says he’s writing ‘a work of social history’; she writes what she calls potboilers to help support their family. They’re some kind of communists, I think, and I mean I guess they’re nice enough, but they’re
awful.”
And she turned away from the sight of them. “You want to go into the studio?”
“Not just yet,” Michael told her. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
“… in a cardboard
box
,” Bill Brock’s loud voice was explaining to the Damons, while Karen clung to his arm as if for protection, “with a
string
around it. And that represents six and a half years’ work. So you see I can agree with everything you say, Al, and with everything you’re
likely
to say – but in political terms only. That kind of material simply doesn’t lend itself to the novel form. Probably never has, probably never will.”
“Ah,” said Al Damon, raking his hair back from his brow with nervous fingers. “Well, I’m not going to charge you with ‘selling out,’ my friend, but I’ll suggest that you’re chasing after false gods. I’ll suggest
“Well,” Michael said, “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your work, but that’s only because I don’t keep up nearly as much as I—”
“Oh, no,” Marjorie Grant answered him. “I’ve only had one book and it’s just a little Wesleyan University Press sort of thing.”
“Well, but Wesleyan’s one of the finest—”
“Yes, I know people say that, but in my case it doesn’t really apply. One reviewer called it ‘kittenish,’ and after I stopped crying I began to see what he meant. I’m working on some much better stuff now, though, so I hope you’ll—”
“Oh, I certainly will,” Michael told her. “And I’ll get the first book, too, whether you like it or not.”
“Marjorie?” Rex inquired. “Want to move on into the studio and look at some of Tom’s new things?”
When they’d gone Michael felt a happy glow from her praise – the line she’d quoted had never seemed especially good before – though he wished he could have found a way to ask which of the poems hadn’t struck her as wholly successful.
And after another drink or two, watching Tom Nelson move courteously among his guests, he decided he didn’t really mind the paratrooper’s jacket. Most of these people must surely know that Nelson hadn’t been an airborne soldier; and what if they didn’t? The war had been over for eleven or twelve years; wasn’t it about time for people to wear whatever they felt like? Wasn’t it essentially dumb and “square” to think otherwise? And maybe, in all innocence, Nelson did like it because of the pockets. What would be the matter with that?
“Know something?” Lucy asked, drifting up to his side anhour or so later. Her eyes were unnaturally bright. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many intelligent-looking people in one place in my whole life.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Well,” she amended, “with the exception of those two over there near the wall. They’re awful – I can’t imagine where the Nelsons ever dug them up, or why, but I’m glad Bill Brock is stuck with them now: they deserve each other.” One was a sturdy young man whose dark hair kept falling almost into his eyes as he talked; the other was a plain girl in a cheap dress that looked uncomfortable and moist at the armpits. Both their faces were so earnest and humorless, so charged with the effort of making their conversational points clear at all cost, that they didn’t seem to belong in this gathering. “Their name’s Damon,” Lucy said. “He’s a linotype operator in Pleasantville and says he’s writing ‘a work of social history’; she writes what she calls potboilers to help support their family. They’re some kind of communists, I think, and I mean I guess they’re nice enough, but they’re
awful.”
And she turned away from the sight of them. “You want to go into the studio?”
“Not just yet,” Michael told her. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
“… in a cardboard
box
,” Bill Brock’s loud voice was explaining to the Damons, while Karen clung to his arm as if for protection, “with a
string
around it. And that represents six and a half years’ work. So you see I can agree with everything you say, Al, and with everything you’re
likely
to say – but in political terms only. That kind of material simply doesn’t lend itself to the novel form. Probably never has, probably never will.”
“Ah,” said Al Damon, raking his hair back from his brow with nervous fingers. “Well, I’m not going to charge you with ‘selling out,’ my friend, but I’ll suggest that you’re chasing after false gods. I’ll suggest
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