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

the street. Through the windows of many of the houses rosy lights were flickering; and silver tinsel and evergreen wreaths and brilliant little glass globes of silver and wine colour could be seen, and glimpses were caught of Christmas trees, with people decking them by firelight⁠—reminders that this was Christmas Eve. The ride-stealers had disappeared from the highway, though now and then, over the gasping and howling of the horseless carriage, there came a shrill jeer from some young passerby upon the sidewalk:

“Mister, fer heaven’s sake go an’ git a hoss! Git a hoss! Git a hoss!”

The contrivance stopped with a heart-shaking jerk before Isabel’s house. The gentlemen jumped down, helping Isabel and Fanny to descend; there were friendly leavetakings⁠—and one that was not precisely friendly.

“It’s au revoir, till tonight, isn’t it?” Lucy asked, laughing.

“Good afternoon!” said George, and he did not wait, as his relatives did, to see the old sewing machine start briskly down the street, toward the Sharons’; its lighter load consisting now of only Mr. Morgan and his daughter. George went into the house at once.

He found his father reading the evening paper in the library. “Where are your mother and your Aunt Fanny?” Mr. Minafer inquired, not looking up.

“They’re coming,” said his son; and, casting himself heavily into a chair, stared at the fire.

His prediction was verified a few moments later; the two ladies came in cheerfully, unfastening their fur cloaks. “It’s all right, Georgie,” said Isabel. “Your Uncle George called to us that Pendennis got home safely. Put your shoes close to the fire, dear, or else go and change them.” She went to her husband and patted him lightly on the shoulder, an action which George watched with sombre moodiness. “You might dress before long,” she suggested. “We’re all going to the Assembly, after dinner, aren’t we? Brother George said he’d go with us.”

“Look here,” said George abruptly. “How about this man Morgan and his old sewing-machine? Doesn’t he want to get grandfather to put money into it? Isn’t he trying to work Uncle George for that? Isn’t that what he’s up to?”

It was Miss Fanny who responded. “You little silly!” she cried, with surprising sharpness. “What on earth are you talking about? Eugene Morgan’s perfectly able to finance his own inventions these days.”

“I’ll bet he borrows money of Uncle George,” the nephew insisted.

Isabel looked at him in grave perplexity. “Why do you say such a thing, George?” she asked.

“He strikes me as that sort of man,” he answered doggedly. “Isn’t he, father?”

Minafer set down his paper for the moment. “He was a fairly wild young fellow twenty years ago,” he said, glancing at his wife absently. “He was like you in one thing, Georgie; he spent too much money⁠—only he didn’t have any mother to get money out of a grandfather for him, so he was usually in debt. But I believe I’ve heard he’s done fairly well of late years. No, I can’t say I think he’s a swindler, and I doubt if he needs anybody else’s money to back his horseless carriage.”

“Well, what’s he brought the old thing here for, then? People that own elephants don’t take them elephants around with ’em when they go visiting. What’s he got it here for?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mr. Minafer, resuming his paper. “You might ask him.”

Isabel laughed, and patted her husband’s shoulder again. “Aren’t you going to dress? Aren’t we all going to the dance?”

He groaned faintly. “Aren’t your brother and Georgie escorts enough for you and Fanny?”

“Wouldn’t you enjoy it at all?”

“You know I don’t.”

Isabel let her hand remain upon his shoulder a moment longer; she stood behind him, looking into the fire, and George, watching her broodingly, thought there was more colour in her face than the reflection of the flames accounted for. “Well, then,” she said indulgently, “stay at home and be happy. We won’t urge you if you’d really rather not.”

“I really wouldn’t,” he said contentedly.

Half an hour later, George was passing through the upper hall, in a bathrobe stage of preparation for the evening’s’ gaieties, when he encountered his Aunt Fanny. He stopped her. “Look here!” he said.

“What in the world is the matter with you?” she demanded, regarding him with little amiability. “You look as if you were rehearsing for a villain in a play. Do change your expression!”

His expression gave no sign of yielding to the request; on the contrary, its somberness deepened. “I suppose you don’t know why father doesn’t want to go tonight,” he said solemnly. “You’re his only sister, and yet you don’t know!”

“He never wants to go anywhere that I ever heard of,” said Fanny. “What is the matter with you?”

“He doesn’t want to go because he doesn’t like this man Morgan.”

“Good gracious!” Fanny cried impatiently. “Eugene Morgan isn’t in your father’s thoughts at all, one way or the other. Why should he be?”

George hesitated. “Well⁠—it strikes me⁠—Look here, what makes you and⁠—and everybody⁠—so excited over him?”

“Excited!” she jeered. “Can’t people be glad to see an old friend without silly children like you having to make a to-do about it? I’ve just been in your mother’s room suggesting that she might give a little dinner for them⁠—”

“For who?”

“For whom, Georgie! For Mr. Morgan and his daughter.”

“Look here!” George said quickly. “Don’t do that! Mother mustn’t do that. It wouldn’t look well.”

“Wouldn’t look well!” Fanny mocked him; and her suppressed vehemence betrayed a surprising acerbity. “See here, Georgie Minafer, I suggest that you just march straight on into your room and finish your dressing! Sometimes you say things that show you have a pretty mean little mind!”

George was so astounded by this outburst that his indignation was delayed by his curiosity. “Why, what upsets you this way?” he inquired.

“I know what you mean,” she said, her voice still lowered, but not decreasing in sharpness. “You’re trying to insinuate that I’d get your mother to invite Eugene Morgan here on my account because he’s a widower!”

“I am?” George gasped, nonplussed. “I’m trying to