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

was a straightforward soul, at least. “See here!” he said. “Are you engaged to anybody?”

“No.”

Not wholly mollified, he shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to know a good many people! Do you live in New York?”

“No. We don’t live anywhere.”

“What you mean: you don’t live anywhere?”

“We’ve lived all over,” she answered. “Papa used to live here in this town, but that was before I was born.”

“What do you keep moving around so for? Is he a promoter?”

“No. He’s an inventor.”

“What’s he invented?”

“Just lately,” said Lucy, “he’s been working on a new kind of horseless carriage.”

“Well, I’m sorry for him,” George said, in no unkindly spirit. “Those things are never going to amount to anything. People aren’t going to spend their lives lying on their backs in the road and letting grease drip in their faces. Horseless carriages are pretty much a failure, and your father better not waste his time on ’em.”

“Papa’d be so grateful,” she returned, “if he could have your advice.”

Instantly George’s face became flushed. “I don’t know that I’ve done anything to be insulted for!” he said. “I don’t see that what I said was particularly fresh.”

“No, indeed!”

“Then what do you⁠—”

She laughed gaily. “I don’t! And I don’t mind your being such a lofty person at all. I think it’s ever so interesting⁠—but papa’s a great man!”

“Is he?” George decided to be good-natured “Well, let us hope so. I hope so, I’m sure.”

Looking at him keenly, she saw that the magnificent youth was incredibly sincere in this bit of graciousness. He spoke as a tolerant, elderly statesman might speak of a promising young politician; and with her eyes still upon him, Lucy shook her head in gentle wonder. “I’m just beginning to understand,” she said.

“Understand what?”

“What it means to be a real Amberson in this town. Papa told me something about it before we came, but I see he didn’t say half enough!”

George superbly took this all for tribute. “Did your father say he knew the family before he left here?”

“Yes. I believe he was particularly a friend of your Uncle George; and he didn’t say so, but I imagine he must have known your mother very well, too. He wasn’t an inventor then; he was a young lawyer. The town was smaller in those days, and I believe he was quite well known.”

“I dare say. I’ve no doubt the family are all very glad to see him back, especially if they used to have him at the house a good deal, as he told you.”

“I don’t think he meant to boast of it,” she said: “He spoke of it quite calmly.”

George stared at her for a moment in perplexity, then perceiving that her intention was satirical, “Girls really ought to go to a man’s college,” he said⁠—“just a month or two, anyhow; It’d take some of the freshness out of ’em!”

“I can’t believe it,” she retorted, as her partner for the next dance arrived. “It would only make them a little politer on the surface⁠—they’d be really just as awful as ever, after you got to know them a few minutes.”

“What do you mean: ‘after you got to know them a⁠—’ ”

She was departing to the dance. “Janie and Mary Sharon told me all about what sort of a little boy you were,” she said, over her shoulder. “You must think it out!” She took wing away on the breeze of the waltz, and George, having stared gloomily after her for a few moments, postponed filling an engagement, and strolled round the fluctuating outskirts of the dance to where his uncle, George Amberson, stood smilingly watching, under one of the rose-vine arches at the entrance to the room.

“Hello, young namesake,” said the uncle. “Why lingers the laggard heel of the dancer? Haven’t you got a partner?”

“She’s sitting around waiting for me somewhere,” said George. “See here: Who is this fellow Morgan that Aunt Fanny Minafer was dancing with a while?”

Amberson laughed. “He’s a man with a pretty daughter, Georgie. Meseemed you’ve been spending the evening noticing something of that sort⁠—or do I err?”

“Never mind! What sort is he?”

“I think we’ll have to give him a character, Georgie. He’s an old friend; used to practice law here⁠—perhaps he had more debts than cases, but he paid ’em all up before he left town. Your question is purely mercenary, I take it: you want to know his true worth before proceeding further with the daughter. I cannot inform you, though I notice signs of considerable prosperity in that becoming dress of hers. However, you never can tell, it is an age when every sacrifice is made for the young, and how your own poor mother managed to provide those genuine pearl studs for you out of her allowance from father, I can’t⁠—”

“Oh, dry up!” said the nephew. “I understand this Morgan⁠—”

“Mr. Eugene Morgan,” his uncle suggested. “Politeness requires that the young should⁠—”

“I guess the ‘young’ didn’t know much about politeness in your day,” George interrupted. “I understand that Mr. Eugene Morgan used to be a great friend of the family.”

“Oh, the Minafers?” the uncle inquired, with apparent innocence. “No, I seem to recall that he and your father were not⁠—”

“I mean the Ambersons,” George said impatiently. “I understand he was a good deal around the house here.”

“What is your objection to that, George?”

“What do you mean: my objection?”

“You seemed to speak with a certain crossness.”

“Well,” said George, “I meant he seems to feel awfully at home here. The way he was dancing with Aunt Fanny⁠—”

Amberson laughed. “I’m afraid your Aunt Fanny’s heart was stirred by ancient recollections, Georgie.”

“You mean she used to be silly about him?”

“She wasn’t considered singular,” said the uncle. “He was⁠—he was popular. Could you bear a question?”

“What do you mean: could I bear⁠—”

“I only wanted to ask: Do you take this same passionate interest in the parents of every girl you dance with? Perhaps it’s a new fashion we old bachelors ought to take up. Is it the thing this year to⁠—”

“Oh, go on!” said George, moving away.