“I wish you and I could go there some day and that you could feel as I do about it. But you wouldn’t. You are always so sure and smug—and you have a feeling that money will buy anything—even Paradise. I wonder what you will be like on the next plane. You won’t fit into my farmhouse. I fancy that you’ll be something rather—devilish—like Don Juan—or perhaps you’ll be just an ’ostler in a courtyard, shining boots and—kissing maids——
“Of course I don’t
quite mean that. But I do feel that you’d
rather worth while if you’d stop philandering and discover your
“I am a bit homesick, and I haven’t any home. If Dad hadn’t married a second time, I believe he would still love me a bit. But his wife doesn’t. And so here I am—and as restless as ever—seeking something—always seeking.
“And now, once more, don’t break the heart of the new little girl. I don’t need to warn you not to break your own. You are the greatest example of the truth of ’he who loves and runs away will live to love another day.’ Oh, Georgie-Porgie, will you ever love any woman enough to rise with her to the heights?
“Perhaps there aren’t any heights for you or me. But I should like to think there were. Different hilltops, of course, so that we could wave across. We shall never climb together, Georgie. Perhaps we are too much alike to help each other up the hills. We need stronger props.
“Tell me about
Flora. Is she really ill? If she is, I’ll
I’d rather not.
“I hope you won’t read this aloud to Oscar. You might, you know, and it wouldn’t do. He would hate to believe that he’d be happier buying things at a delicatessen, and he wouldn’t believe it. But it’s true, just as it is true that you would be happy shining boots and making love to the maids like a character in Dickens.
“Come on up, and
we’ll motor to Boston on Sunday afternoon and
we’ll go to Trinity; I want somebody to be good with me, Georgie,
and there are so many of the other kind.
George knew that he ought to go, but he was not ready yet to run away. He was having the time of his life, and as for Becky, he would teach her how to play the game.
Aunt Claudia was away for three weeks.
“I wish she would come home,” young Paine said one morning to his mother.
“Why?” Caroline Paine was at her desk with her mind on the dinner. “Why, Randy?”
“Oh, Dalton’s going there a lot.”
Mrs. Paine headed her list with gumbo soup. “Do you think he goes to see Becky?”