“I remember. He was writing a book.”
“Well, he sold it to the movies. Then they
had some scenario man named Jordan work on it.
Well, Dick subscribes to a clipping bureau and he’s
furious because about half the movie reviewers speak
of the ’power and strength of William Jordan’s
“Demon Lover."’ Didn’t mention old
Dick at all. You’d think this fellow Jordan
had actually conceived and developed the thing.”
Bloeckman nodded comprehensively.
“Most of the contracts state that the original
writer’s name goes into all the paid publicity.
Is Caramel still writing?”
“Oh, yes. Writing hard. Short stories.”
“Well, that’s fine, that’s fine....
You on this train often?”
“About once a week. We live in Marietta.”
“Is that so? Well, well! I live near
Cos Cob myself. Bought a place there only recently.
We’re only five miles apart.”
“You’ll have to come and see us.”
Anthony was surprised at his own courtesy. “I’m
sure Gloria’d be delighted to see an old friend.
Anybody’ll tell you where the house is—it’s
our second season there.”
“Thank you.” Then, as though returning
a complementary politeness: “How is your
grandfather?”
“He’s been well. I had lunch with
him to-day.”
“A great character,” said Bloeckman severely.
“A fine example of an American.”
Anthony found his wife deep in the porch hammock voluptuously
engaged with a lemonade and a tomato sandwich and
carrying on an apparently cheery conversation with
Tana upon one of Tana’s complicated themes.
“In my countree,” Anthony recognized his
invariable preface, “all time—peoples—eat
rice—because haven’t got. Cannot
eat what no have got.” Had his nationality
not been desperately apparent one would have thought
he had acquired his knowledge of his native land from
American primary-school geographies.
When the Oriental had been squelched and dismissed
to the kitchen, Anthony turned questioningly to Gloria:
“It’s all right,” she announced,
smiling broadly. “And it surprised me more
than it does you.”
“There’s no doubt?”
“None! Couldn’t be!”
They rejoiced happily, gay again with reborn irresponsibility.
Then he told her of his opportunity to go abroad,
and that he was almost ashamed to reject it.
“What do you think? Just tell me
frankly.”
“Why, Anthony!” Her eyes were startled.
“Do you want to go? Without me?”
His face fell—yet he knew, with his wife’s
question, that it was too late. Her arms, sweet
and strangling, were around him, for he had made all
such choices back in that room in the Plaza the year
before. This was an anachronism from an age of
such dreams.
“Gloria,” he lied, in a great burst of
comprehension, “of course I don’t.
I was thinking you might go as a nurse or something.”
He wondered dully if his grandfather would consider
this.
