The Magnificent Ambersons Booth Tarkington (reading like a writer txt) 📖

the same distance they took her to be about sixty, instead of forty, as she was. She had old days and young days; old hours and young hours; old minutes and young minutes; for the change might be that quick. An alteration in her expression, or a difference in the attitude of her head, would cause astonishing indentations to appear⁠—and behold, Fanny was an old lady! But she had been never more childlike than she was tonight as she flew over the floor in the capable arms of the queer-looking duck; for this person was her partner.

The queer-looking duck had been a real dancer in his day, it appeared; and evidently his day was not yet over. In spite of the headlong, gay rapidity with which he bore Miss Fanny about the big room, he danced authoritatively, avoiding without effort the lightest collision with other couples, maintaining sufficient grace throughout his wildest moments, and all the while laughing and talking with his partner. What was most remarkable to George, and a little irritating, this stranger in the Amberson Mansion had no vestige of the air of deference proper to a stranger in such a place: he seemed thoroughly at home. He seemed offensively so, indeed, when, passing the entrance to the gallery stairway, he disengaged his hand from Miss Fanny’s for an instant, and not pausing in the dance, waved a laughing salutation more than cordial, then capered lightly out of sight.

George gazed stonily at this manifestation, responding neither by word nor sign. “How’s that for a bit of freshness?” he murmured.

“What was?” Miss Morgan asked.

“That queer-looking duck waving his hand at me like that. Except he’s the Sharon girls’ uncle I don’t know him from Adam.”

“You don’t need to,” she said. “He wasn’t waving his hand to you: he meant me.”

“Oh, he did?” George was not mollified by the explanation. “Everybody seems to mean you! You certainly do seem to’ve been pretty busy this week you’ve been here!”

She pressed her bouquet to her face again, and laughed into it, not displeased. She made no other comment, and for another period neither spoke. Meanwhile the music stopped; loud applause insisted upon its renewal; an encore was danced; there was an interlude of voices; and the changing of partners began.

“Well,” said George finally, “I must say you don’t seem to be much of a prattler. They say it’s a great way to get a reputation for being wise, never saying much. Don’t you ever talk any?”

“When people can understand,” she answered.

He had been looking moodily out at the ballroom but he turned to her quickly, at this, saw that her eyes were sunny and content, over the top of her bouquet; and he consented to smile.

“Girls are usually pretty fresh!” he said. “They ought to go to a man’s college about a year: they’d get taught a few things about freshness! What you got to do after two o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”

“A whole lot of things. Every minute filled up.”

“All right,” said George. “The snow’s fine for sleighing: I’ll come for you in a cutter at ten minutes after two.”

“I can’t possibly go.”

“If you don’t,” he said, “I’m going to sit in the cutter in front of the gate, wherever you’re visiting, all afternoon, and if you try to go out with anybody else he’s got to whip me before he gets you.” And as she laughed⁠—though she blushed a little, too⁠—he continued, seriously: “If you think I’m not in earnest you’re at liberty to make quite a big experiment!”

She laughed again. “I don’t think I’ve often had so large a compliment as that,” she said, “especially on such short notice⁠—and yet, I don’t think I’ll go with you.”

“You be ready at ten minutes after two.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will!”

“Yes,” she said, “I will!” And her partner for the next dance arrived, breathless with searching.

“Don’t forget I’ve got the third from now,” George called after her.

“I won’t.”

“And every third one after that.”

“I know!” she called, over her partner’s shoulder, and her voice was amused⁠—but meek.

When “the third from now” came, George presented himself before her without any greeting, like a brother, or a mannerless old friend. Neither did she greet him, but moved away with him, concluding, as she went, an exchange of badinage with the preceding partner: she had been talkative enough with him, it appeared. In fact, both George and Miss Morgan talked much more to everyone else that evening, than to each other; and they said nothing at all at this time. Both looked preoccupied, as they began to dance, and preserved a gravity, of expression to the end of the number. And when “the third one after that” came, they did not dance, but went back to the gallery stairway, seeming to have reached an understanding without any verbal consultation, that this suburb was again the place for them.

“Well,” said George, coolly, when they were seated, “what did you say your name was?”

“Morgan.”

“Funny name!”

“Everybody else’s name always is.”

“I didn’t mean it was really funny,” George explained. “That’s just one of my crowd’s bits of horsing at college. We always say ‘funny name’ no matter what it is. I guess we’re pretty fresh sometimes; but I knew your name was Morgan because my mother said so downstairs. I meant: what’s the rest of it?”

“Lucy.”

He was silent.

“Is ‘Lucy’ a funny name, too?” she inquired.

“No. Lucy’s very much all right!” he said, and he went so far as to smile. Even his Aunt Fanny admitted that when George smiled “in a certain way” he was charming.

“Thanks about letting my name be Lucy,” she said.

“How old are you?” George asked.

“I don’t really know, myself.”

“What do you mean: you don’t really know yourself?”

“I mean I only know what they tell me. I believe them, of course, but believing isn’t really knowing. You believe some certain day is your birthday⁠—at least, I suppose you do⁠—but you don’t really know it is because you can’t remember.”

“Look here!” said George. “Do you always talk like this?”

Miss