"THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS\n\n\nBy Booth Tarkington\n\n\n\nChapter I\n\n\nMajor Amberson had \"made a fortune\" in 1873, when other people were\nlosing fortunes, and the magnificence of the Ambersons began then.\nMagnificence, like the size of a fortune, is always comparative, as even\nMagnificent Lorenzo may now perceive, if he has happened to haunt New\nYork in 1916; and the Ambersons were magnificent in their day and place.\nTheir splendour lasted throughout all the years that saw their Midland\ntown spread and darken into a city, but reached its topmost during the\nperiod when every prosperous family with children kept a Newfoundland\ndog.\n\nIn that town, in those days, all the women who wore silk or velvet knew\nall the other women who wore silk or velvet, and when there was a new\npurchase of sealskin, sick people were got to windows to see it go by.\nTrotters were out, in the winter afternoons, racing light sleighs on\nNational Avenue and Tennessee Street; everybody recognized both\nthe trotters and the drivers; and again knew them as well on summer\nevenings, when slim buggies whizzed by in renewals of the snow-time\nrivalry. For that matter, everybody knew everybody else's family\nhorse-and-carriage, could identify such a silhouette half a mile down\nthe street, and thereby was sure who was going to market, or to a\nreception, or coming home from office or store to noon dinner or evening\nsupper.\n\nDuring the earlier years of this period, elegance of personal appearance\nwas believed to rest more upon the texture of garments than upon their\nshaping. A silk dress needed no remodelling when it was a year or so\nold; it remained distinguished by merely remaining silk. Old men and\ngovernors wore broadcloth; \"full dress\" was broadcloth with \"doeskin\"\ntrousers; and there were seen men of all ages to whom a hat meant only\nthat rigid, tall silk thing known to impudence as a \"stove-pipe.\"\nIn town and country these men would wear no other hat, and, without\nself-consciousness, they went rowing in such hats.\n\nShifting fashions of shape replaced aristocracy of texture: dressmakers,\nshoemakers, hatmakers, and tailors, increasing in cunning and in power,\nfound means to make new clothes old. The long contagion of the \"Derby\"\nhat arrived: one season the crown of this hat would be a bucket; the\nnext it would be a spoon. Every house still kept its bootjack, but\nhigh-topped boots gave way to shoes and \"congress gaiters\"; and these\nwere played through fashions that shaped them now with toes like\nbox-ends and now with toes like the prows of racing shells.\n\nTrousers with a crease were considered plebeian; the crease proved that\nthe garment had lain upon a shelf, and hence was \"ready-made\"; these\nbetraying trousers were called \"hand-me-downs,\" in allusion to the\nshelf. In the early 'eighties, while bangs and bustles were having\ntheir way with women, that variation of dandy known as the \"dude\" was\ninvented: he wore trousers as tight as stockings, dagger-pointed shoes,\na spoon \"Derby,\" a single-breasted coat called a \"Chesterfield,\" with\nshort flaring skirts, a torturing cylindrical collar, laundered to a\npolish and three inches high, while his other neckgear might be a heavy,\npuffed cravat or a tiny bow fit for a doll's braids. With evening dress\nhe wore a tan overcoat so short that his black coat-tails hung visible,\nfive inches below the over-coat; but after a season or two he lengthened\nhis overcoat till it touched his heels, and he passed out of his tight\ntrousers into trousers like great bags. Then, presently, he was seen\nno more, though the word that had been coined for him remained in the\nvocabularies of the impertinent.\n\nIt was a hairier day than this. Beards were to the wearers' fancy,\nand things as strange as the Kaiserliche boar-tusk moustache were\ncommonplace. \"Side-burns\" found nourishment upon childlike profiles;\ngreat Dundreary whiskers blew like tippets over young shoulders;\nmoustaches were trained as lambrequins over forgotten mouths; and it\nwas possible for a Senator of the United States to wear a mist of white\nwhisker upon his throat only, not a newspaper in the land finding the\nornament distinguished enough to warrant a lampoon. Surely no more is\nneeded to prove that so short a time ago we were living in another age!\n\nAt the beginning of the Ambersons' great period most of the houses of\nthe Midland town were of a pleasant architecture. They lacked style, but\nalso lacked pretentiousness, and whatever does not pretend at all has\nstyle enough. They stood in commodious yards, well shaded by leftover\nforest trees, elm and walnut and beech, with here and there a line of\ntall sycamores where the land had been made by filling bayous from the\ncreek. The house of a \"prominent resident,\" facing Military Square, or\nNational Avenue, or Tennessee Street, was built of brick upon a stone\nfoundation, or of wood upon a brick foundation. Usually it had a \"front\nporch\" and a \"back porch\"; often a \"side porch,\" too. There was a \"front\nhall\"; there was a \"side hall\"; and sometimes a \"back hall.\" From the\n\"front hall\" opened three rooms, the \"parlour,\" the \"sitting room,\" and\nthe \"library\"; and the library could show warrant to its title--for some\nreason these people bought books. Commonly, the family sat more in\nthe library than in the \"sitting room,\" while callers, when they came\nformally, were kept to the \"parlour,\" a place of formidable polish and\ndiscomfort. The upholstery of the library furniture was a little shabby;\nbut the hostile chairs and sofa of the \"parlour\" always looked new. For\nall the wear and tear they got they should have lasted a thousand years.\n\nUpstairs were the bedrooms; \"mother-and-father's room\" the largest; a\nsmaller room for one or two sons another for one or two daughters; each\nof these rooms containing a double bed, a \"washstand,\" a \"bureau,\" a\nwardrobe, a little table, a rocking-chair, and often a chair or two that\nhad been slightly damaged downstairs, but not enough to justify either\nthe expense of repair or decisive abandonment in the attic. And there\nwas always a \"spare-room,\" for visitors (where the sewing-machine\nusually was kept), and during the 'seventies there developed an\nappreciation of the necessity for a bathroom. Therefore the architects\nplaced bathrooms in the new houses, and the older houses tore out a\ncupboard or two, set up a boiler beside the kitchen stove, and sought\na new godliness, each with its own bathroom. The great American plumber\njoke, that many-branched evergreen, was planted at this time.\n\nAt the rear of the house, upstairs was a bleak little chamber, called\n\"the girl's room,\" and in the stable there was another bedroom,\nadjoining the hayloft, and called \"the hired man's room.\" House and\nstable cost seven or eight thousand dollars to build, and people with\nthat much money to invest in such comforts were classified as the Rich.\nThey paid the inhabitant of \"the girl's room\" two dollars a week, and,\nin the latter part of this period, two dollars and a half, and finally\nthree dollars a week. She was Irish, ordinarily, or German or it might\nbe Scandinavian, but never native to the land unless she happened to be\na person of colour. The man or youth who lived in the stable had like\nwages, and sometimes he, too, was lately a steerage voyager, but much\noftener he was coloured.\n\nAfter sunrise, on pleasant mornings, the alleys behind the stables were\ngay; laughter and shouting went up and down their dusty lengths, with\na lively accompaniment of curry-combs knocking against back fences and\nstable walls, for the darkies loved to curry their horses in the alley.\nDarkies always prefer to gossip in shouts instead of whispers; and\nthey feel that profanity, unless it be vociferous, is almost worthless.\nHorrible phrases were caught by early rising children and carried to\nolder people for definition, sometimes at inopportune moments; while\nless investigative children would often merely repeat the phrases in\nsome subsequent flurry of agitation, and yet bring about consequences so\nemphatic as to be recalled with ease in middle life.\n\nThey have passed, those darky hired-men of the Midland town; and the\nintrospective horses they curried and brushed and whacked and amiably\ncursed--those good old horses switch their tails at flies no more. For\nall their seeming permanence they might as well have been buffaloes--or\nthe buffalo laprobes that grew bald in patches and used to slide from\nthe careless drivers' knees and hang unconcerned, half way to the\nground. The stables have been transformed into other likenesses, or\nswept away, like the woodsheds where were kept the stove-wood and\nkindling that the \"girl\" and the \"hired-man\" always quarrelled over: who\nshould fetch it. Horse and stable and woodshed, and the whole tribe of\nthe \"hired-man,\" all are gone. They went quickly, yet so silently that\nwe whom they served have not yet really noticed that they are vanished.\n\nSo with other vanishings. There were the little bunty street-cars on the\nlong, single track that went its troubled way among the cobblestones.\nAt the rear door of the car there was no platform, but a step where\npassengers clung in wet clumps when the weather was bad and the car\ncrowded. The patrons--if not too absent-minded--put their fares into a\nslot; and no conductor paced the heaving floor, but the driver would rap\nremindingly with his elbow upon the glass of the door to his little open\nplatform if the nickels and the passengers did not appear to coincide in\nnumber. A lone mule drew the car, and sometimes drew it off the track,\nwhen the passengers would get out and push it on again. They really owed\nit courtesies like this, for the car was genially accommodating: a lady\ncould whistle to it from an upstairs window, and the car would halt\nat once and wait for her while she shut the window, put on her hat and\ncloak, went downstairs, found an umbrella, told the \"girl\" what to have\nfor dinner, and came forth from the house.\n\nThe previous passengers made little objection to such gallantry on the\npart of the car: they were wont to expect as much for themselves on like\noccasion. In good weather the mule pulled the car a mile in a little\nless than twenty minutes, unless the stops were too long; but when the\ntrolley-car came, doing its mile in five minutes and better, it would\nwait for nobody. Nor could its passengers have endured such a thing,\nbecause the faster they were carried the less time they had to spare! In\nthe days before deathly contrivances hustled them through their lives,\nand when they had no telephones--another ancient vacancy profoundly\nresponsible for leisure--they had time for everything: time to think, to\ntalk, time to read, time to wait for a lady!\n\nThey even had time to dance \"square dances,\" quadrilles, and \"lancers\";\nthey also danced the \"racquette,\" and schottisches and polkas, and\nsuch whims as the \"Portland Fancy.\" They pushed back the sliding doors\nbetween the \"parlour\" and the \"sitting room,\" tacked down crash over\nthe carpets, hired a few palms in green tubs, stationed three or four\nItalian musicians under the stairway in the \"front hall\"--and had great\nnights!\n\nBut these people were gayest on New Year's Day; they made it a true\nfestival--something no longer known. The women gathered to \"assist\" the\nhostesses who kept \"Open House\"; and the carefree men, dandified and\nperfumed, went about in sleighs, or in carriages and ponderous \"hacks,\"\ngoing from Open House to Open House, leaving fantastic cards in fancy\nbaskets as they entered each doorway, and emerging a little later, more\ncarefree than ever, if the punch had been to their liking. It always\nwas, and, as the afternoon wore on, pedestrians saw great gesturing and\nwaving of skin-tight lemon gloves, while ruinous fragments of song were\ndropped behind as the carriages rolled up and down the streets.\n\n\"Keeping Open House\" was a merry custom; it has gone, like the all-day\npicnic in the woods, and like that prettiest of all vanished customs,\nthe serenade. When a lively girl visited the town she did not long\ngo unserenaded, though a visitor was not indeed needed to excuse a\nserenade. Of a summer night, young men would bring an orchestra under\na pretty girl's window--or, it might be, her father's, or that of an\nailing maiden aunt--and flute, harp, fiddle, 'cello, cornet, and bass\nviol would presently release to the dulcet stars such melodies as sing\nthrough \"You'll Remember Me,\" \"I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls,\"\n\"Silver Threads Among the Gold,\" \"Kathleen Mavourneen,\" or \"The\nSoldier's Farewell.\"\n\nThey had other music to offer, too, for these were the happy days\nof \"Olivette\" and \"The Macotte\" and \"The Chimes of Normandy\" and\n\"Girofle-Girofla\" and \"Fra Diavola.\" Better than that, these were the\ndays of \"Pinafore\" and \"The Pirates of Penzance\" and of \"Patience.\" This\nlast was needed in the Midland town, as elsewhere, for the \"aesthetic\nmovement\" had reached thus far from London, and terrible things were\nbeing done to honest old furniture. Maidens sawed what-nots in two, and\ngilded the remains. They took the rockers from rocking-chairs and gilded\nthe inadequate legs; they gilded the easels that supported the crayon\nportraits of their deceased uncles. In the new spirit of art they\nsold old clocks for new, and threw wax flowers and wax fruit, and the\nprotecting glass domes, out upon the trash-heap. They filled vases with\npeacock feathers, or cattails, or sumac, or sunflowers, and set the\nvases upon mantelpieces and marble-topped tables. They embroidered\ndaisies (which they called \"marguerites\") and sunflowers and sumac and\ncat-tails and owls and peacock feathers upon plush screens and upon\nheavy cushions, then strewed these cushions upon floors where fathers\nfell over them in the dark. In the teeth of sinful oratory, the\ndaughters went on embroidering: they embroidered daisies and sunflowers\nand sumac and cat-tails and owls and peacock feathers upon \"throws\"\nwhich they had the courage to drape upon horsehair sofas; they painted\nowls and daisies and sunflowers and sumac and cat-tails and peacock\nfeathers upon tambourines. They hung Chinese umbrellas of paper to\nthe chandeliers; they nailed paper fans to the walls. They \"studied\"\npainting on china, these girls; they sang Tosti's new songs; they\nsometimes still practiced the old, genteel habit of lady-fainting, and\nwere most charming of all when they drove forth, three or four in a\nbasket phaeton, on a spring morning.\n\nCroquet and the mildest archery ever known were the sports of people\nstill young and active enough for so much exertion; middle-age played\neuchre. There was a theatre, next door to the Amberson Hotel, and when\nEdwin Booth came for a night, everybody who could afford to buy a ticket\nwas there, and all the \"hacks\" in town were hired. \"The Black Crook\"\nalso filled the theatre, but the audience then was almost entirely of\nmen who looked uneasy as they left for home when the final curtain fell\nupon the shocking girls dressed as fairies. But the theatre did not\noften do so well; the people of the town were still too thrifty.\n\nThey were thrifty because they were the sons or grandsons of the \"early\nsettlers,\" who had opened the wilderness and had reached it from the\nEast and the South with wagons and axes and guns, but with no money at\nall. The pioneers were thrifty or they would have perished: they had\nto store away food for the winter, or goods to trade for food, and they\noften feared they had not stored enough--they left traces of that fear\nin their sons and grandsons. In the minds of most of these, indeed,\ntheir thrift was next to their religion: to save, even for the sake\nof saving, was their earliest lesson and discipline. No matter how\nprosperous they were, they could not spend money either upon \"art,\" or\nupon mere luxury and entertainment, without a sense of sin.\n\nAgainst so homespun a background the magnificence of the Ambersons was\nas conspicuous as a brass band at a funeral. Major Amberson bought two\nhundred acres of land at the end of National Avenue; and through this\ntract he built broad streets and cross-streets; paved them with cedar\nblock, and curbed them with stone. He set up fountains, here and there,\nwhere the streets intersected, and at symmetrical intervals placed\ncast-iron statues, painted white, with their titles clear upon the\npedestals: Minerva, Mercury, Hercules, Venus, Gladiator, Emperor\nAugustus, Fisher Boy, Stag-hound, Mastiff, Greyhound, Fawn, Antelope,\nWounded Doe, and Wounded Lion. Most of the forest trees had been left to\nflourish still, and, at some distance, or by moonlight, the place was\nin truth beautiful; but the ardent citizen, loving to see his city grow,\nwanted neither distance nor moonlight. He had not seen Versailles, but,\nstanding before the Fountain of Neptune in Amberson Addition, at bright\nnoon, and quoting the favourite comparison of the local newspapers,\nhe declared Versailles outdone. All this Art showed a profit from the\nstart, for the lots sold well and there was something like a rush\nto build in the new Addition. Its main thoroughfare, an oblique\ncontinuation of National Avenue, was called Amberson Boulevard, and\nhere, at the juncture of the new Boulevard and the Avenue, Major\nAmberson reserved four acres for himself, and built his new house--the\nAmberson Mansion, of course.\n\nThis house was the pride of the town. Faced with stone as far back\nas the dining-room windows, it was a house of arches and turrets and\ngirdling stone porches: it had the first porte-cochere seen in that\ntown. There was a central \"front hall\" with a great black walnut\nstairway, and open to a green glass skylight called the \"dome,\" three\nstories above the ground floor. A ballroom occupied most of the\nthird story; and at one end of it was a carved walnut gallery for the\nmusicians. Citizens told strangers that the cost of all this black\nwalnut and wood-carving was sixty thousand dollars. \"Sixty thousand\ndollars for the wood-work alone! Yes, sir, and hardwood floors all over\nthe house! Turkish rugs and no carpets at all, except a Brussels carpet\nin the front parlour--I hear they call it the 'reception-room.' Hot and\ncold water upstairs and down, and stationary washstands in every last\nbedroom in the place! Their sideboard's built right into the house and\ngoes all the way across one end of the dining room. It isn't walnut,\nit's solid mahogany! Not veneering--solid mahogany! Well, sir, I presume\nthe President of the United States would be tickled to swap the\nWhite House for the new Amberson Mansion, if the Major'd give him the\nchance--but by the Almighty Dollar, you bet your sweet life the Major\nwouldn't!\"\n\nThe visitor to the town was certain to receive further enlightenment,\nfor there was one form of entertainment never omitted: he was always\npatriotically taken for \"a little drive around our city,\" even if his\nhost had to hire a hack, and the climax of the display was the Amberson\nMansion. \"Look at that greenhouse they've put up there in the side\nyard,\" the escort would continue. \"And look at that brick stable! Most\nfolks would think that stable plenty big enough and good enough to live\nin; it's got running water and four rooms upstairs for two hired men and\none of 'em's family to live in. They keep one hired man loafin' in the\nhouse, and they got a married hired man out in the stable, and his wife\ndoes the washing. They got box-stalls for four horses, and they keep\na coupay, and some new kinds of fancy rigs you never saw the beat of!\n'Carts' they call two of 'em--'way up in the air they are--too high for\nme! I guess they got every new kind of fancy rig in there that's been\ninvented. And harness--well, everybody in town can tell when Ambersons\nare out driving after dark, by the jingle. This town never did see so\nmuch style as Ambersons are putting on, these days; and I guess it's\ngoing to be expensive, because a lot of other folks'll try to keep up\nwith 'em. The Major's wife and the daughter's been to Europe, and my\nwife tells me since they got back they make tea there every afternoon\nabout five o'clock, and drink it. Seems to me it would go against a\nperson's stomach, just before supper like that, and anyway tea isn't fit\nfor much--not unless you're sick or something. My wife says Ambersons\ndon't make lettuce salad the way other people do; they don't chop it\nup with sugar and vinegar at all. They pour olive oil on it with their\nvinegar, and they have it separate--not along with the rest of the meal.\nAnd they eat these olives, too: green things they are, something like a\nhard plum, but a friend of mine told me they tasted a good deal like a\nbad hickory-nut. My wife says she's going to buy some; you got to eat\nnine and then you get to like 'em, she says. Well, I wouldn't eat nine\nbad hickory-nuts to get to like them, and I'm going to let these olives\nalone. Kind of a woman's dish, anyway, I suspect, but most everybody'll\nbe makin' a stagger to worm through nine of 'em, now Ambersons brought\n'em to town. Yes, sir, the rest'll eat 'em, whether they get sick or\nnot! Looks to me like some people in this city'd be willing to go crazy\nif they thought that would help 'em to be as high-toned as Ambersons.\nOld Aleck Minafer--he's about the closest old codger we got--he come\nin my office the other day, and he pretty near had a stroke tellin' me\nabout his daughter Fanny. Seems Miss Isabel Amberson's got some kind of\na dog--they call it a Saint Bernard--and Fanny was bound to have one,\ntoo. Well, old Aleck told her he didn't like dogs except rat-terriers,\nbecause a rat-terrier cleans up the mice, but she kept on at him, and\nfinally he said all right she could have one. Then, by George! she says\nAmbersons bought their dog, and you can't get one without paying for it:\nthey cost from fifty to a hundred dollars up! Old Aleck wanted to know\nif I ever heard of anybody buyin' a dog before, because, of course, even\na Newfoundland or a setter you can usually get somebody to give you one.\nHe says he saw some sense in payin' a nigger a dime, or even a\nquarter, to drown a dog for you, but to pay out fifty dollars and maybe\nmore--well, sir, he like to choked himself to death, right there in\nmy office! Of course everybody realizes that Major Amberson is a fine\nbusiness man, but what with throwin' money around for dogs, and every\nwhich and what, some think all this style's bound to break him up, if\nhis family don't quit!\"\n\nOne citizen, having thus discoursed to a visitor, came to a thoughtful\npause, and then added, \"Does seem pretty much like squandering, yet when\nyou see that dog out walking with this Miss Isabel, he seems worth the\nmoney.\"\n\n\"What's she look like?\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said the citizen, \"she's not more than just about eighteen\nor maybe nineteen years old, and I don't know as I know just how to put\nit--but she's kind of a delightful lookin' young lady!\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter II\n\n\nAnother citizen said an eloquent thing about Miss Isabel Amberson's\nlooks. This was Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster, the foremost literary\nauthority and intellectual leader of the community---for both the daily\nnewspapers thus described Mrs. Foster when she founded the Women's\nTennyson Club; and her word upon art, letters, and the drama was\naccepted more as law than as opinion. Naturally, when \"Hazel Kirke\"\nfinally reached the town, after its long triumph in larger places, many\npeople waited to hear what Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster thought of it\nbefore they felt warranted in expressing any estimate of the play. In\nfact, some of them waited in the lobby of the theatre, as they came out,\nand formed an inquiring group about her.\n\n\"I didn't see the play,\" she informed them.\n\n\"What! Why, we saw you, right in the middle of the fourth row!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, smiling, \"but I was sitting just behind Isabelle\nAmberson. I couldn't look at anything except her wavy brown hair and the\nwonderful back of her neck.\"\n\nThe ineligible young men of the town (they were all ineligible) were\nunable to content themselves with the view that had so charmed Mrs.\nHenry Franklin Foster: they spent their time struggling to keep Miss\nAmberson's face turned toward them. She turned it most often, observers\nsaid, toward two: one excelling in the general struggle by his sparkle,\nand the other by that winning if not winsome old trait, persistence. The\nsparkling gentleman \"led germans\" with her, and sent sonnets to her with\nhis bouquets--sonnets lacking neither music nor wit. He was generous,\npoor, well-dressed, and his amazing persuasiveness was one reason why\nhe was always in debt. No one doubted that he would be able to persuade\nIsabel, but he unfortunately joined too merry a party one night, and,\nduring a moonlight serenade upon the lawn before the Amberson Mansion,\nwas easily identified from the windows as the person who stepped through\nthe bass viol and had to be assisted to a waiting carriage. One of Miss\nAmberson's brothers was among the serenaders, and, when the party\nhad dispersed, remained propped against the front door in a state\nof helpless liveliness; the Major going down in a dressing-gown and\nslippers to bring him in, and scolding mildly, while imperfectly\nconcealing strong impulses to laughter. Miss Amberson also laughed\nat this brother, the next day, but for the suitor it was a different\nmatter: she refused to see him when he called to apologize. \"You seem to\ncare a great deal about bass viols!\" he wrote her. \"I promise never\nto break another.\" She made no response to the note, unless it was an\nanswer, two weeks later, when her engagement was announced. She took the\npersistent one, Wilbur Minafer, no breaker of bass viols or of hearts,\nno serenader at all.\n\nA few people, who always foresaw everything, claimed that they were not\nsurprised, because though Wilbur Minafer \"might not be an Apollo, as it\nwere,\" he was \"a steady young business man, and a good church-goer,\" and\nIsabel Amberson was \"pretty sensible--for such a showy girl.\" But the\nengagement astounded the young people, and most of their fathers and\nmothers, too; and as a topic it supplanted literature at the next\nmeeting of the \"Women's Tennyson Club.\"\n\n\"Wilbur Minafer!\" a member cried, her inflection seeming to imply that\nWilbur's crime was explained by his surname. \"Wilbur Minafer! It's the\nqueerest thing I ever heard! To think of her taking Wilbur Minafer, just\nbecause a man any woman would like a thousand times better was a little\nwild one night at a serenade!\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster. \"It isn't that. It isn't even\nbecause she's afraid he'd be a dissipated husband and she wants to be\nsafe. It isn't because she's religious or hates wildness; it isn't even\nbecause she hates wildness in him.\"\n\n\"Well, but look how she's thrown him over for it.\"\n\n\"No, that wasn't her reason,\" said the wise Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster.\n\"If men only knew it--and it's a good thing they don't--a woman doesn't\nreally care much about whether a man's wild or not, if it doesn't affect\nherself, and Isabel Amberson doesn't care a thing!\"\n\n\"Mrs. Foster!\"\n\n\"No, she doesn't. What she minds is his making a clown of himself in\nher front yard! It made her think he didn't care much about her. She's\nprobably mistaken, but that's what she thinks, and it's too late for\nher to think anything else now, because she's going to be married\nright away--the invitations will be out next week. It'll be a big\nAmberson-style thing, raw oysters floating in scooped-out blocks of\nice and a band from out-of-town--champagne, showy presents; a colossal\npresent from the Major. Then Wilbur will take Isabel on the carefulest\nlittle wedding trip he can manage, and she'll be a good wife to him, but\nthey'll have the worst spoiled lot of children this town will ever see.\"\n\n\"How on earth do you make that out, Mrs. Foster?\"\n\n\"She couldn't love Wilbur, could she?\" Mrs. Foster demanded, with no\nchallengers. \"Well, it will all go to her children, and she'll ruin\n'em!\"\n\nThe prophetess proved to be mistaken in a single detail merely: except\nfor that, her foresight was accurate. The wedding was of Ambersonian\nmagnificence, even to the floating oysters; and the Major's colossal\npresent was a set of architect's designs for a house almost as elaborate\nand impressive as the Mansion, the house to be built in Amberson\nAddition by the Major. The orchestra was certainly not that local\none which had suffered the loss of a bass viol; the musicians came,\naccording to the prophecy and next morning's paper, from afar; and at\nmidnight the bride was still being toasted in champagne, though she had\ndeparted upon her wedding journey at ten. Four days later the pair had\nreturned to town, which promptness seemed fairly to demonstrate that\nWilbur had indeed taken Isabel upon the carefulest little trip he could\nmanage. According to every report, she was from the start \"a good wife\nto him,\" but here in a final detail the prophecy proved inaccurate.\nWilbur and Isabel did not have children; they had only one.\n\n\"Only one,\" Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster admitted. \"But I'd like to know\nif he isn't spoiled enough for a whole carload!\"\n\nAgain she found none to challenge her.\n\nAt the age of nine, George Amberson Minafer, the Major's one grandchild,\nwas a princely terror, dreaded not only in Amberson Addition but in many\nother quarters through which he galloped on his white pony. \"By golly,\nI guess you think you own this town!\" an embittered labourer complained,\none day, as Georgie rode the pony straight through a pile of sand the\nman was sieving. \"I will when I grow up,\" the undisturbed child replied.\n\"I guess my grandpa owns it now, you bet!\" And the baffled workman,\nhaving no means to controvert what seemed a mere exaggeration of the\nfacts could only mutter \"Oh, pull down your vest!\"\n\n\"Don't haf to! Doctor says it ain't healthy!\" the boy returned promptly.\n\"But I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll pull down my vest if you'll wipe\noff your chin!\"\n\nThis was stock and stencil: the accustomed argot of street badinage of\nthe period; and in such matters Georgie was an expert. He had no vest\nto pull down; the incongruous fact was that a fringed sash girdled the\njuncture of his velvet blouse and breeches, for the Fauntleroy period\nhad set in, and Georgie's mother had so poor an eye for appropriate\nthings, where Georgie was concerned, that she dressed him according to\nthe doctrine of that school in boy decoration. Not only did he wear a\nsilk sash, and silk stockings, and a broad lace collar, with his little\nblack velvet suit: he had long brown curls, and often came home with\nburrs in them.\n\nExcept upon the surface (which was not his own work, but his mother's)\nGeorgie bore no vivid resemblance to the fabulous little Cedric.\nThe storied boy's famous \"Lean on me, grandfather,\" would have been\ndifficult to imagine upon the lips of Georgie. A month after his ninth\nbirthday anniversary, when the Major gave him his pony, he had already\nbecome acquainted with the toughest boys in various distant parts of\nthe town, and had convinced them that the toughness of a rich little boy\nwith long curls might be considered in many respects superior to their\nown. He fought them, learning how to go berserk at a certain point in a\nfight, bursting into tears of anger, reaching for rocks, uttering wailed\nthreats of murder and attempting to fulfil them. Fights often led to\nintimacies, and he acquired the art of saying things more exciting than\n\"Don't haf to!\" and \"Doctor says it ain't healthy!\" Thus, on a summer\nafternoon, a strange boy, sitting bored upon the gate-post of the\nReverend Malloch Smith, beheld George Amberson Minafer rapidly\napproaching on his white pony, and was impelled by bitterness to shout:\n\"Shoot the ole jackass! Look at the girly curls! Say, bub, where'd you\nsteal your mother's ole sash!\"\n\n\"Your sister stole it for me!\" Georgie instantly replied, checking the\npony. \"She stole it off our clo'es-line an' gave it to me.\"\n\n\"You go get your hair cut!\" said the stranger hotly. \"Yah! I haven't got\nany sister!\"\n\n\"I know you haven't at home,\" Georgie responded. \"I mean the one that's\nin jail.\"\n\n\"I dare you to get down off that pony!\"\n\nGeorgie jumped to the ground, and the other boy descended from the\nReverend Mr. Smith's gatepost--but he descended inside the gate. \"I dare\nyou outside that gate,\" said Georgie.\n\n\"Yah! I dare you half way here. I dare you--\"\n\nBut these were luckless challenges, for Georgie immediately vaulted\nthe fence--and four minutes later Mrs. Malloch Smith, hearing strange\nnoises, looked forth from a window; then screamed, and dashed for the\npastor's study. Mr. Malloch Smith, that grim-bearded Methodist, came to\nthe front yard and found his visiting nephew being rapidly prepared by\nMaster Minafer to serve as a principal figure in a pageant of massacre.\nIt was with great physical difficulty that Mr. Smith managed to give\nhis nephew a chance to escape into the house, for Georgie was hard and\nquick, and, in such matters, remarkably intense; but the minister, after\na grotesque tussle, got him separated from his opponent, and shook him.\n\n\"You stop that, you!\" Georgie cried fiercely; and wrenched himself away.\n\"I guess you don't know who I am!\"\n\n\"Yes, I do know!\" the angered Mr. Smith retorted. \"I know who you are,\nand you're a disgrace to your mother! Your mother ought to be ashamed of\nherself to allow--\"\n\n\"Shut up about my mother bein' ashamed of herself!\"\n\nMr. Smith, exasperated, was unable to close the dialogue with dignity.\n\"She ought to be ashamed,\" he repeated. \"A woman that lets a bad boy\nlike you--\"\n\nBut Georgie had reached his pony and mounted. Before setting off at his\naccustomed gallop, he paused to interrupt the Reverend Malloch Smith\nagain. \"You pull down your vest, you ole Billygoat, you!\" he shouted,\ndistinctly. \"Pull down your vest, wipe off your chin--an' go to hell!\"\n\nSuch precocity is less unusual, even in children of the Rich, than most\ngrown people imagine. However, it was a new experience for the Reverend\nMalloch Smith, and left him in a state of excitement. He at once wrote a\nnote to Georgie's mother, describing the crime according to his nephew's\ntestimony; and the note reached Mrs. Minafer before Georgie did. When he\ngot home she read it to him sorrowfully.\n\nDear Madam: Your son has caused a painful distress in my household. He\nmade an unprovoked attack upon a little nephew of mine who is visiting\nin my household, insulted him by calling him vicious names and\nfalsehoods, stating that ladies of his family were in jail. He then\ntried to make his pony kick him, and when the child, who is only eleven\nyears old, while your son is much older and stronger, endeavoured to\navoid his indignities and withdraw quietly, he pursued him into the\nenclosure of my property and brutally assaulted him. When I appeared\nupon this scene he deliberately called insulting words to me, concluding\nwith profanity, such as \"go to hell,\" which was heard not only by myself\nbut by my wife and the lady who lives next door. I trust such a state of\nundisciplined behaviour may be remedied for the sake of the reputation\nfor propriety, if nothing higher, of the family to which this unruly\nchild belongs.\n\n\nGeorgie had muttered various interruptions, and as she concluded the\nreading he said: \"He's an ole liar!\"\n\n\"Georgie, you mustn't say 'liar.' Isn't this letter the truth?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Georgie, \"how old am I?\"\n\n\"Ten.\"\n\n\"Well, look how he says I'm older than a boy eleven years old.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" said Isabel. \"He does. But isn't some of it true,\nGeorgie?\"\n\nGeorgie felt himself to be in a difficulty here, and he was silent.\n\n\"Georgie, did you say what he says you did?\"\n\n\"Which one?\"\n\n\"Did you tell him to--to--Did you say, 'Go to hell?\"\n\nGeorgie looked worried for a moment longer; then he brightened. \"Listen\nhere, mamma; grandpa wouldn't wipe his shoe on that ole story-teller,\nwould he?\"\n\n\"Georgie, you mustn't--\"\n\n\"I mean: none of the Ambersons wouldn't have anything to do with him,\nwould they? He doesn't even know you, does he, mamma?\"\n\n\"That hasn't anything to do with it.\"\n\n\"Yes, it has! I mean: none of the Amberson family go to see him, and\nthey never have him come in their house; they wouldn't ask him to, and\nthey prob'ly wouldn't even let him.\"\n\n\"That isn't what we're talking about.\"\n\n\"I bet,\" said Georgie emphatically, \"I bet if he wanted to see any of\n'em, he'd haf to go around to the side door!\"\n\n\"No, dear, they--\"\n\n\"Yes, they would, mamma! So what does it matter if I did say somep'm' to\nhim he didn't like? That kind o' people, I don't see why you can't say\nanything you want to, to 'em!\"\n\n\"No, Georgie. And you haven't answered me whether you said that dreadful\nthing he says you did.\"\n\n\"Well--\" said Georgie. \"Anyway, he said somep'm' to me that made me\nmad.\" And upon this point he offered no further details; he would not\nexplain to his mother that what had made him \"mad\" was Mr. Smith's hasty\ncondemnation of herself: \"Your mother ought to be ashamed,\" and, \"A\nwoman that lets a bad boy like you--\" Georgie did not even consider\nexcusing himself by quoting these insolences.\n\nIsabel stroked his head. \"They were terrible words for you to use, dear.\nFrom his letter he doesn't seem a very tactful person, but--\"\n\n\"He's just riffraff,\" said Georgie.\n\n\"You mustn't say so,\" his mother gently agreed \"Where did you learn\nthose bad words he speaks of? Where did you hear any one use them?\"\n\n\"Well, I've heard 'em several places. I guess Uncle George Amberson was\nthe first I ever heard say 'em. Uncle George Amberson said 'em to papa\nonce. Papa didn't like it, but Uncle George was just laughin' at papa,\nan' then he said 'em while he was laughin'.\"\n\n\"That was wrong of him,\" she said, but almost instinctively he detected\nthe lack of conviction in her tone. It was Isabel's great failing that\nwhatever an Amberson did seemed right to her, especially if the Amberson\nwas either her brother George, or her son George. She knew that she\nshould be more severe with the latter now, but severity with him was\nbeyond her power; and the Reverend Malloch Smith had succeeded only\nin rousing her resentment against himself. Georgie's symmetrical\nface--altogether an Amberson face--had looked never more beautiful to\nher. It always looked unusually beautiful when she tried to be severe\nwith him. \"You must promise me,\" she said feebly, \"never to use those\nbad words again.\"\n\n\"I promise not to,\" he said promptly--and he whispered an immediate\ncodicil under his breath: \"Unless I get mad at somebody!\" This satisfied\na code according to which, in his own sincere belief, he never told\nlies.\n\n\"That's a good boy,\" she said, and he ran out to the yard, his\npunishment over. Some admiring friends were gathered there; they had\nheard of his adventure, knew of the note, and were waiting to see what\nwas going to \"happen\" to him. They hoped for an account of things, and\nalso that he would allow them to \"take turns\" riding his pony to the end\nof the alley and back.\n\nThey were really his henchmen: Georgie was a lord among boys. In fact,\nhe was a personage among certain sorts of grown people, and was often\nfawned upon; the alley negroes delighted in him, chuckled over him,\nflattered him slavishly. For that matter, he often heard well-dressed\npeople speaking of him admiringly: a group of ladies once gathered\nabout him on the pavement where he was spinning a top. \"I know this\nis Georgie!\" one exclaimed, and turned to the others with the\nimpressiveness of a showman. \"Major Amberson's only grandchild!\" The\nothers said, \"It is?\" and made clicking sounds with their mouths; two of\nthem loudly whispering, \"So handsome!\"\n\nGeorgie, annoyed because they kept standing upon the circle he had\nchalked for his top, looked at them coldly and offered a suggestion:\n\n\"Oh, go hire a hall!\"\n\nAs an Amberson, he was already a public character, and the story of\nhis adventure in the Reverend Malloch Smith's front yard became a town\ntopic. Many people glanced at him with great distaste, thereafter, when\nthey chanced to encounter him, which meant nothing to Georgie, because\nhe innocently believed most grown people to be necessarily cross-looking\nas a normal phenomenon resulting from the adult state; and he failed to\ncomprehend that the distasteful glances had any personal bearing upon\nhimself. If he had perceived such a bearing, he would have been affected\nonly so far, probably, as to mutter, \"Riffraff!\" Possibly he would have\nshouted it; and, certainly, most people believed a story that went round\nthe town just after Mrs. Amberson's funeral, when Georgie was eleven.\nGeorgie was reported to have differed with the undertaker about the\nseating of the family; his indignant voice had become audible: \"Well,\nwho is the most important person at my own grandmother's funeral?\"\nAnd later he had projected his head from the window of the foremost\nmourners' carriage, as the undertaker happened to pass.\n\n\"Riffraff!\"\n\nThere were people--grown people they were--who expressed themselves\nlongingly: they did hope to live to see the day, they said, when that\nboy would get his come-upance! (They used that honest word, so much\nbetter than \"deserts,\" and not until many years later to be more\nclumsily rendered as \"what is coming to him.\") Something was bound to\ntake him down, some day, and they only wanted to be there! But Georgie\nheard nothing of this, and the yearners for his taking down went\nunsatisfied, while their yearning grew the greater as the happy day\nof fulfilment was longer and longer postponed. His grandeur was not\ndiminished by the Malloch Smith story; the rather it was increased, and\namong other children (especially among little girls) there was added to\nthe prestige of his gilded position that diabolical glamour which must\ninevitably attend a boy who has told a minister to go to hell.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III\n\n\n\nUntil he reached the age of twelve, Georgie's education was a domestic\nprocess; tutors came to the house; and those citizens who yearned for\nhis taking down often said: \"Just wait till he has to go to public\nschool; then he'll get it!\" But at twelve Georgie was sent to a private\nschool in the town, and there came from this small and dependent\ninstitution no report, or even rumour, of Georgie's getting anything\nthat he was thought to deserve; therefore the yearning still persisted,\nthough growing gaunt with feeding upon itself. For, although Georgie's\npomposities and impudence in the little school were often almost\nunbearable, the teachers were fascinated by him. They did not like\nhim--he was too arrogant for that--but he kept them in such a state of\nemotion that they thought more about him than they did about all of the\nother ten pupils. The emotion he kept them in was usually one resulting\nfrom injured self-respect, but sometimes it was dazzled admiration. So\nfar as their conscientious observation went, he \"studied\" his lessons\nsparingly; but sometimes, in class, he flashed an admirable answer, with\na comprehension not often shown by the pupils they taught; and he passed\nhis examinations easily. In all, without discernible effort, he acquired\nat this school some rudiments of a liberal education and learned nothing\nwhatever about himself.\n\nThe yearners were still yearning when Georgie, at sixteen, was sent\naway to a great \"Prep School.\" \"Now,\" they said brightly, \"he'll get it!\nHe'll find himself among boys just as important in their home towns as\nhe is, and they'll knock the stuffing out of him when he puts on his\nairs with them! Oh, but that would be worth something to see!\" They were\nmistaken, it appeared, for when Georgie returned, a few months later,\nhe still seemed to have the same stuffing. He had been deported by the\nauthorities, the offense being stated as \"insolence and profanity\";\nin fact, he had given the principal of the school instructions almost\nidentical with those formerly objected to by the Reverend Malloch Smith.\n\nBut he had not got his come-upance, and those who counted upon it\nwere embittered by his appearance upon the down-town streets driving\na dog-cart at criminal speed, making pedestrians retreat from the\ncrossings, and behaving generally as if he \"owned the earth.\" A\ndisgusted hardware dealer of middle age, one of those who hungered for\nGeorgie's downfall, was thus driven back upon the sidewalk to avoid\nbeing run over, and so far forgot himself as to make use of the pet\nstreet insult of the year: \"Got 'ny sense! See here, bub, does your\nmother know you're out?\"\n\nGeorgie, without even seeming to look at him, flicked the long lash of\nhis whip dexterously, and a little spurt of dust came from the hardware\nman's trousers, not far below the waist. He was not made of hardware:\nhe raved, looking for a missile; then, finding none, commanded himself\nsufficiently to shout after the rapid dog-cart: \"Turn down your pants,\nyou would-be dude! Raining in dear ole Lunnon! Git off the earth!\"\n\nGeorgie gave him no encouragement to think that he was heard. The\ndog-cart turned the next corner, causing indignation there, likewise,\nand, having proceeded some distance farther, halted in front of the\n\"Amberson Block\"--an old-fashioned four-story brick warren of lawyers\noffices, insurance and realestate offices, with a \"drygoods store\"\noccupying the ground floor. Georgie tied his lathered trotter to\na telegraph pole, and stood for a moment looking at the building\ncritically: it seemed shabby, and he thought his grandfather ought to\nreplace it with a fourteen-story skyscraper, or even a higher one, such\nas he had lately seen in New York--when he stopped there for a few days\nof recreation and rest on his way home from the bereaved school. About\nthe entryway to the stairs were various tin signs, announcing the\noccupation and location of upper-floor tenants, and Georgie decided to\ntake some of these with him if he should ever go to college. However,\nhe did not stop to collect them at this time, but climbed the worn\nstairs--there was no elevator--to the fourth floor, went down a dark\ncorridor, and rapped three times upon a door. It was a mysterious door,\nits upper half, of opaque glass, bearing no sign to state the business\nor profession of the occupants within; but overhead, upon the lintel,\nfour letters had been smearingly inscribed, partly with purple ink and\npartly with a soft lead pencil, \"F. O. T. A.\" and upon the plaster wall,\nabove the lintel, there was a drawing dear to male adolescence: a skull\nand crossbones.\n\nThree raps, similar to Georgie's, sounded from within the room. Georgie\nthen rapped four times the rapper within the room rapped twice, and\nGeorgie rapped seven times. This ended precautionary measures; and a\nwell-dressed boy of sixteen opened the door; whereupon Georgie entered\nquickly, and the door was closed behind him. Seven boys of congenial\nage were seated in a semicircular row of damaged office chairs, facing a\nplatform whereon stood a solemn, red-haired young personage with a table\nbefore him. At one end of the room there was a battered sideboard, and\nupon it were some empty beer bottles, a tobacco can about two-thirds\nfull, with a web of mold over the surface of the tobacco, a dusty\ncabinet photograph (not inscribed) of Miss Lillian Russell, several\nwithered old pickles, a caseknife, and a half-petrified section of\nicing-cake on a sooty plate. At the other end of the room were two\nrickety card-tables and a stand of bookshelves where were displayed\nunder dust four or five small volumes of M. Guy de Maupassant's stories,\n\"Robinson Crusoe,\" \"Sappho,\" \"Mr. Barnes of New York,\" a work by\nGiovanni Boccaccio, a Bible, \"The Arabian Nights' Entertainment,\"\n\"Studies of the Human Form Divine,\" \"The Little Minister,\" and a clutter\nof monthly magazines and illustrated weeklies of about that crispness\none finds in such articles upon a doctor's ante-room table. Upon the\nwall, above the sideboard, was an old framed lithograph of Miss Della\nFox in \"Wang\"; over the bookshelves there was another lithograph\npurporting to represent Mr. John L. Sullivan in a boxing costume, and\nbeside it a halftone reproduction of \"A Reading From Horner.\" The final\ndecoration consisted of damaged papiermache--a round shield with two\nbattle-axes and two cross-hilted swords, upon the wall over the little\nplatform where stood the red-haired presiding officer. He addressed\nGeorgie in a serious voice:\n\n\"Welcome, Friend of the Ace.\"\n\n\"Welcome, Friend of the Ace,\" Georgie responded, and all of the other\nboys repeated the words, \"Welcome, Friend of the Ace.\"\n\n\"Take your seat in the secret semicircle,\" said the presiding officer.\n\"We will now proceed to--\"\n\nBut Georgie was disposed to be informal. He interrupted, turning to\nthe boy who had admitted him: \"Look here, Charlie Johnson, what's Fred\nKinney doing in the president's chair? That's my place, isn't it?\nWhat you men been up to here, anyhow? Didn't you all agree I was to be\npresident just the same, even if I was away at school?\"\n\n\"Well--\" said Charlie Johnson uneasily. \"Listen! I didn't have much to\ndo with it. Some of the other members thought that long as you weren't\nin town or anything, and Fred gave the sideboard, why--\"\n\nMr. Kinney, presiding, held in his hand, in lieu of a gavel, and\nconsidered much more impressive, a Civil War relic known as a\n\"horse-pistol.\" He rapped loudly for order. \"All Friends of the Ace will\ntake their seats!\" he said sharply. \"I'm president of the F. O. T. A.\nnow, George Minafer, and don't you forget it! You and Charlie Johnson\nsit down, because I was elected perfectly fair, and we're goin' to hold\na meeting here.\"\n\n\"Oh, you are, are you?\" said George skeptically.\n\nCharlie Johnson thought to mollify him. \"Well, didn't we call this\nmeeting just especially because you told us to? You said yourself we\nought to have a kind of celebration because you've got back to town,\nGeorge, and that's what we're here for now, and everything. What do you\ncare about being president? All it amounts to is just calling the roll\nand--\"\n\nThe president de facto hammered the table. \"This meeting will now\nproceed to--\"\n\n\"No, it won't,\" said George, and he advanced to the desk, laughing\ncontemptuously. \"Get off that platform.\"\n\n\"This meeting will come to order!\" Mr. Kinney commanded fiercely.\n\n\"You put down that gavel,\" said George. \"Whose is it, I'd like to know?\nIt belongs to my grandfather, and you quit hammering it that way or\nyou'll break it, and I'll have to knock your head off.\"\n\n\"This meeting will come to order! I was legally elected here, and I'm\nnot going to be bulldozed!\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Georgie. \"You're president. Now we'll hold another\nelection.\"\n\n\"We will not!\" Fred Kinney shouted. \"We'll have our reg'lar meeting,\nand then we'll play euchre & nickel a corner, what we're here for. This\nmeeting will now come to ord--\"\n\nGeorgie addressed the members. \"I'd like to know who got up this thing\nin the first place,\" he said. \"Who's the founder of the F.O.T.A., if you\nplease? Who got this room rent free? Who got the janitor to let us\nhave most of this furniture? You suppose you could keep this clubroom a\nminute if I told my grandfather I didn't want it for a literary club any\nmore? I'd like to say a word on how you members been acting, too! When I\nwent away I said I didn't care if you had a vice-president or something\nwhile I was gone, but here I hardly turned my back and you had to go and\nelect Fred Kinney president! Well, if that's what you want, you can have\nit. I was going to have a little celebration down here some night pretty\nsoon, and bring some port wine, like we drink at school in our crowd\nthere, and I was going to get my grandfather to give the club an extra\nroom across the hall, and prob'ly I could get my Uncle George to give us\nhis old billiard table, because he's got a new one, and the club could\nput it in the other room. Well, you got a new president now!\" Here\nGeorgie moved toward the door and his tone became plaintive, though\nundeniably there was disdain beneath his sorrow. \"I guess all I better\ndo is--resign!\"\n\nAnd he opened the door, apparently intending to withdraw.\n\n\"All in favour of having a new election,\" Charlie Johnson shouted\nhastily, \"say, 'Aye'!\"\n\n\"Aye\" was said by everyone present except Mr. Kinney, who began a hot\nprotest, but it was immediately smothered.\n\n\"All in favour of me being president instead of Fred Kinney,\" shouted\nGeorgie, \"say 'Aye.' The 'Ayes' have it!\"\n\n \"I resign,\" said the red-headed boy, gulping as he descended from the\nplatform. \"I resign from the club!\"\n\nHot-eyed, he found his hat and departed, jeers echoing after him as he\nplunged down the corridor. Georgie stepped upon the platform, and took\nup the emblem of office.\n\n\"Ole red-head Fred'll be around next week,\" said the new chairman.\n\"He'll be around boot-lickin' to get us to take him back in again, but I\nguess we don't want him: that fellow always was a trouble-maker. We will\nnow proceed with our meeting. Well, fellows, I suppose you want to hear\nfrom your president. I don't know that I have much to say, as I have\nalready seen most of you a few times since I got back. I had a good time\nat the old school, back East, but had a little trouble with the faculty\nand came on home. My family stood by me as well as I could ask, and I\nexpect to stay right here in the old town until whenever I decide to\nenter college. Now, I don't suppose there's any more business before the\nmeeting. I guess we might as well play cards. Anybody that's game for a\nlittle quarter-limit poker or any limit they say, why I'd like to have\n'em sit at the president's card-table.\"\n\nWhen the diversions of the Friends of the Ace were concluded for that\nafternoon, Georgie invited his chief supporter, Mr. Charlie Johnson, to\ndrive home with him to dinner, and as they jingled up National Avenue in\nthe dog-cart, Charlie asked:\n\n\"What sort of men did you run up against at that school, George?\"\n\n\"Best crowd there: finest set of men I ever met.\"\n\n\"How'd you get in with 'em?\"\n\nGeorgie laughed. \"I let them get in with me, Charlie,\" he said in a tone\nof gentle explanation. \"It's vulgar to do any other way. Did I tell you\nthe nickname they gave me--'King'? That was what they called me at that\nschool, 'King Minafer.\"\n\n\"How'd they happen to do that?\" his friend asked innocently.\n\n\"Oh, different things,\" George answered lightly. \"Of course, any of\n'em that came from anywhere out in this part the country knew about\nthe family and all that, and so I suppose it was a good deal on account\nof--oh, on account of the family and the way I do things, most likely.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV\n\n\nWhen Mr. George Amberson Minafer came home for the holidays at\nChristmastide, in his sophomore year, probably no great change had taken\nplace inside him, but his exterior was visibly altered. Nothing about\nhim encouraged any hope that he had received his come-upance; on the\ncontrary, the yearners for that stroke of justice must yearn even\nmore itchingly: the gilded youth's manner had become polite, but his\npoliteness was of a kind which democratic people found hard to bear. In\na word, M. le Due had returned from the gay life of the capital to\nshow himself for a week among the loyal peasants belonging to the\nold chateau, and their quaint habits and costumes afforded him a mild\namusement.\n\nCards were out for a ball in his honour, and this pageant of the\ntenantry was held in the ballroom of the Amberson Mansion the night\nafter his arrival. It was, as Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster said of\nIsabel's wedding, \"a big Amberson-style thing,\" though that wise Mrs.\nHenry Franklin Foster had long ago gone the way of all wisdom, having\nstepped out of the Midland town, unquestionably into heaven--a long\nstep, but not beyond her powers. She had successors, but no successor;\nthe town having grown too large to confess that it was intellectually\nled and literarily authoritated by one person; and some of these\nsuccessors were not invited to the ball, for dimensions were now so\nmetropolitan that intellectual leaders and literary authorities loomed\nin outlying regions unfamiliar to the Ambersons. However, all \"old\ncitizens\" recognizable as gentry received cards, and of course so did\ntheir dancing descendants.\n\nThe orchestra and the caterer were brought from away, in the Amberson\nmanner, though this was really a gesture--perhaps one more of habit\nthan of ostentation--for servitors of gaiety as proficient as these\nimportations were nowadays to be found in the town. Even flowers and\nplants and roped vines were brought from afar--not, however, until\nthe stock of the local florists proved insufficient to obliterate the\ninterior structure of the big house, in the Amberson way. It was\nthe last of the great, long remembered dances that \"everybody talked\nabout\"--there were getting to be so many people in town that no later\nthan the next year there were too many for \"everybody\" to hear of even\nsuch a ball as the Ambersons'.\n\nGeorge, white-gloved, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, stood with his\nmother and the Major, embowered in the big red and gold drawing room\ndownstairs, to \"receive\" the guests; and, standing thus together, the\ntrio offered a picturesque example of good looks persistent through\nthree generations. The Major, his daughter, and his grandson were of a\ntype all Amberson: tall, straight, and regular, with dark eyes, short\nnoses, good chins; and the grandfather's expression, no less than\nthe grandson's, was one of faintly amused condescension. There was a\ndifference, however. The grandson's unlined young face had nothing to\noffer except this condescension; the grandfather's had other things to\nsay. It was a handsome, worldly old face, conscious of its importance,\nbut persuasive rather than arrogant, and not without tokens of\nsufferings withstood. The Major's short white hair was parted in the\nmiddle, like his grandson's, and in all he stood as briskly equipped to\nthe fashion as exquisite young George.\n\nIsabel, standing between her father and her son caused a vague amazement\nin the mind of the latter. Her age, just under forty, was for George\na thought of something as remote as the moons of Jupiter: he could not\npossibly have conceived such an age ever coming to be his own: five\nyears was the limit of his thinking in time. Five years ago he had been\na child not yet fourteen; and those five years were an abyss. Five years\nhence he would be almost twenty-four; what the girls he knew called \"one\nof the older men.\" He could imagine himself at twenty-four, but beyond\nthat, his powers staggered and refused the task. He saw little essential\ndifference between thirty-eight and eighty-eight, and his mother was to\nhim not a woman but wholly a mother. He had no perception of her other\nthan as an adjunct to himself, his mother; nor could he imagine her\nthinking or doing anything--falling in love, walking with a friend, or\nreading a book--as a woman, and not as his mother. The woman, Isabel,\nwas a stranger to her son; as completely a stranger as if he had never\nin his life seen her or heard her voice. And it was to-night, while he\nstood with her, \"receiving,\" that he caught a disquieting glimpse of\nthis stranger whom he thus fleetingly encountered for the first time.\n\nYouth cannot imagine romance apart from youth. That is why the roles of\nthe heroes and heroines of plays are given by the managers to the most\nyouthful actors they can find among the competent. Both middle-aged\npeople and young people enjoy a play about young lovers; but only\nmiddle-aged people will tolerate a play about middle-aged lovers; young\npeople will not come to see such a play, because, for them, middle-aged\nlovers are a joke--not a very funny one. Therefore, to bring both the\nmiddle-aged people and the young people into his house, the manager\nmakes his romance as young as he can. Youth will indeed be served, and\nits profound instinct is to be not only scornfully amused but vaguely\nangered by middle-age romance. So, standing beside his mother, George\nwas disturbed by a sudden impression, coming upon him out of nowhere,\nso far as he could detect, that her eyes were brilliant, that she was\ngraceful and youthful--in a word, that she was romantically lovely.\n\nHe had one of those curious moments that seem to have neither a\ncause nor any connection with actual things. While it lasted, he was\ndisquieted not by thoughts--for he had no definite thoughts--but by a\nslight emotion like that caused in a dream by the presence of something\ninvisible soundless, and yet fantastic. There was nothing different or\nnew about his mother, except her new black and silver dress: she was\nstanding there beside him, bending her head a little in her greetings,\nsmiling the same smile she had worn for the half-hour that people had\nbeen passing the \"receiving\" group. Her face was flushed, but the room\nwas warm; and shaking hands with so many people easily accounted for the\npretty glow that was upon her. At any time she could have \"passed\" for\ntwenty-five or twenty-six--a man of fifty would have honestly guessed\nher to be about thirty but possibly two or three years younger--and\nthough extraordinary in this, she had been extraordinary in it for\nyears. There was nothing in either her looks or her manner to explain\nGeorge's uncomfortable feeling; and yet it increased, becoming suddenly\na vague resentment, as if she had done something unmotherly to him.\n\nThe fantastic moment passed; and even while it lasted, he was doing his\nduty, greeting two pretty girls with whom he had grown up, as people\nsay, and warmly assuring them that he remembered them very well--an\nassurance which might have surprised them \"in anybody but Georgie\nMinafer!\" It seemed unnecessary, since he had spent many hours with\nthem no longer ago than the preceding August, They had with them their\nparents and an uncle from out of town; and George negligently gave the\nparents the same assurance he had given the daughters, but murmured\nanother form of greeting to the out-of-town uncle, whom he had\nnever seen before. This person George absently took note of as a\n\"queer-looking duck.\" Undergraduates had not yet adopted \"bird.\" It was\na period previous to that in which a sophomore would have thought of the\nSharon girls' uncle as a \"queer-looking bird,\" or, perhaps a \"funny-face\nbird.\" In George's time, every human male was to be defined, at\npleasure, as a \"duck\"; but \"duck\" was not spoken with admiring\naffection, as in its former feminine use to signify a \"dear\"--on the\ncontrary, \"duck\" implied the speaker's personal detachment and humorous\nsuperiority. An indifferent amusement was what George felt when\nhis mother, with a gentle emphasis, interrupted his interchange of\ncourtesies with the nieces to present him to the queer-looking duck\ntheir uncle. This emphasis of Isabel's, though slight, enabled George\nto perceive that she considered the queer-looking duck a person of some\nimportance; but it was far from enabling him to understand why. The\nduck parted his thick and longish black hair on the side; his tie was\na forgetful looking thing, and his coat, though it fitted a good enough\nmiddle-aged figure, no product of this year, or of last year either.\nOne of his eyebrows was noticeably higher than the other; and there were\nwhimsical lines between them, which gave him an apprehensive expression;\nbut his apprehensions were evidently more humorous than profound, for\nhis prevailing look was that of a genial man of affairs, not much afraid\nof anything whatever Nevertheless, observing only his unfashionable\nhair, his eyebrows, his preoccupied tie and his old coat, the olympic\nGeorge set him down as a queer-looking duck, and having thus completed\nhis portrait, took no interest in him.\n\nThe Sharon girls passed on, taking the queer-looking duck with them, and\nGeorge became pink with mortification as his mother called his attention\nto a white-bearded guest waiting to shake his hand. This was George's\ngreat-uncle, old John Minafer: it was old John's boast that in spite\nof his connection by marriage with the Ambersons, he never had worn and\nnever would wear a swaller-tail coat. Members of his family had exerted\ntheir influence uselessly--at eighty-nine conservative people seldom\nform radical new habits, and old John wore his \"Sunday suit\" of black\nbroadcloth to the Amberson ball. The coat was square, with skirts to the\nknees; old John called it a \"Prince Albert\" and was well enough pleased\nwith it, but his great-nephew considered it the next thing to an insult.\nGeorge's purpose had been to ignore the man, but he had to take his\nhand for a moment; whereupon old John began to tell George that he was\nlooking well, though there had been a time, during his fourth month,\nwhen he was so puny that nobody thought he would live. The great-nephew,\nin a fury of blushes, dropped old John's hand with some vigour, and\nseized that of the next person in the line. \"Member you v'ry well\n'ndeed!\" he said fiercely.\n\nThe large room had filled, and so had the broad hall and the rooms\non the other side of the hall, where there were tables for whist. The\nimported orchestra waited in the ballroom on the third floor, but\na local harp, 'cello, violin, and flute were playing airs from \"The\nFencing Master\" in the hall, and people were shouting over the music.\nOld John Minafer's voice was louder and more penetrating than any other,\nbecause he had been troubled with deafness for twenty-five years, heard\nhis own voice but faintly, and liked to hear it. \"Smell o' flowers like\nthis always puts me in mind o' funerals,\" he kept telling his niece,\nFanny Minafer, who was with him; and he seemed to get a great deal of\nsatisfaction out of this reminder. His tremulous yet strident voice\ncut through the voluminous sound that filled the room, and he was\nheard everywhere: \"Always got to think o' funerals when I smell so\nmany flowers!\" And, as the pressure of people forced Fanny and himself\nagainst the white marble mantelpiece, he pursued this train of cheery\nthought, shouting, \"Right here's where the Major's wife was laid out at\nher funeral. They had her in a good light from that big bow window.\"\nHe paused to chuckle mournfully. \"I s'pose that's where they'll put the\nMajor when his time comes.\"\n\nPresently George's mortification was increased to hear this sawmill\ndroning harshly from the midst of the thickening crowd: \"Ain't the\ndancin' broke out yet, Fanny? Hoopla! Le's push through and go see the\nyoung women-folks crack their heels! Start the circus! Hoopse-daisy!\"\nMiss Fanny Minafer, in charge of the lively veteran, was almost as\ndistressed as her nephew George, but she did her duty and managed to get\nold John through the press and out to the broad stairway, which numbers\nof young people were now ascending to the ballroom. And here the sawmill\nvoice still rose over all others: \"Solid black walnut every inch of it,\nbalustrades and all. Sixty thousand dollars' worth o' carved woodwork\nin the house! Like water! Spent money like water! Always did! Still do!\nLike water! God knows where it all comes from!\"\n\nHe continued the ascent, barking and coughing among the gleaming young\nheads, white shoulders, jewels, and chiffon, like an old dog slowly\nswimming up the rapids of a sparkling river; while down below, in the\ndrawing room, George began to recover from the degradation into which\nthis relic of early settler days had dragged him. What restored him\ncompletely was a dark-eyed little beauty of nineteen, very knowing in\nlustrous blue and jet; at sight of this dashing advent in the line of\nguests before him, George was fully an Amberson again.\n\n\"Remember you very well indeed!\" he said, his graciousness more earnest\nthan any he had heretofore displayed. Isabel heard him and laughed.\n\n\"But you don't, George!\" she said. \"You don't remember her yet, though\nof course you will! Miss Morgan is from out of town, and I'm afraid this\nis the first time you've ever seen her. You might take her up to the\ndancing; I think you've pretty well done your duty here.\"\n\n\"Be d'lighted,\" George responded formally, and offered his arm, not with\na flourish, certainly, but with an impressiveness inspired partly by the\nappearance of the person to whom he offered it, partly by his being the\nhero of this fete, and partly by his youthfulness--for when manners are\nnew they are apt to be elaborate. The little beauty entrusted her gloved\nfingers to his coat-sleeve, and they moved away together.\n\nTheir progress was necessarily slow, and to George's mind it did not\nlack stateliness. How could it? Musicians, hired especially for him,\nwere sitting in a grove of palms in the hall and now tenderly playing\n\"Oh, Promise Me\" for his pleasuring; dozens and scores of flowers had\nbeen brought to life and tended to this hour that they might sweeten\nthe air for him while they died; and the evanescent power that music\nand floral scents hold over youth stirred his appreciation of strange,\nbeautiful qualities within his own bosom: he seemed to himself to be\nmysteriously angelic, and about to do something which would overwhelm\nthe beautiful young stranger upon his arm.\n\nElderly people and middle-aged people moved away to let him pass with\nhis honoured fair beside him. Worthy middle-class creatures, they\nseemed, leading dull lives but appreciative of better things when they\nsaw them--and George's bosom was fleetingly touched with a pitying\nkindness. And since the primordial day when caste or heritage first\nset one person, in his own esteem, above his fellow-beings, it is to\nbe doubted if anybody ever felt more illustrious, or more negligently\ngrand, than George Amberson Minafer felt at this party.\n\nAs he conducted Miss Morgan through the hall, toward the stairway, they\npassed the open double doors of a card room, where some squadrons of\nolder people were preparing for action, and, leaning gracefully upon\nthe mantelpiece of this room, a tall man, handsome, high-mannered, and\nsparklingly point-device, held laughing converse with that queer-looking\nduck, the Sharon girls' uncle. The tall gentleman waved a gracious\nsalutation to George, and Miss Morgan's curiosity was stirred. \"Who is\nthat?\"\n\n\"I didn't catch his name when my mother presented him to me,\" said\nGeorge. \"You mean the queer-looking duck.\"\n\n\"I mean the aristocratic duck.\"\n\n\"That's my Uncle George Honourable George Amberson. I thought everybody\nknew him.\"\n\n\"He looks as though everybody ought to know him,\" she said. \"It seems to\nrun in your family.\"\n\nIf she had any sly intention, it skipped over George harmlessly. \"Well,\nof course, I suppose most everybody does,\" he admitted--\"out in this\npart of the country especially. Besides, Uncle George is in Congress;\nthe family like to have someone there.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Well, it's sort of a good thing in one way. For instance, my Uncle\nSydney Amberson and his wife, Aunt Amelia, they haven't got much of\nanything to do with themselves--get bored to death around here, of\ncourse. Well, probably Uncle George'll have Uncle Sydney appointed\nminister or ambassador, or something like that, to Russia or Italy or\nsomewhere, and that'll make it pleasant when any of the rest of the\nfamily go travelling, or things like that. I expect to do a good deal of\ntravelling myself when I get out of college.\"\n\nOn the stairway he pointed out this prospective ambassadorial couple,\nSydney and Amelia. They were coming down, fronting the ascending tide,\nand as conspicuous over it as a king and queen in a play. Moreover,\nas the clear-eyed Miss Morgan remarked, the very least they looked was\nambassadorial. Sydney was an Amberson exaggerated, more pompous than\ngracious; too portly, flushed, starched to a shine, his stately\njowl furnished with an Edward the Seventh beard. Amelia, likewise\nfull-bodied, showed glittering blond hair exuberantly dressed; a pink,\nfat face cold under a white-hot tiara; a solid, cold bosom under a\nwhite-hot necklace; great, cold, gloved arms, and the rest of her\nbeautifully upholstered. Amelia was an Amberson born, herself, Sydney's\nsecond-cousin: they had no children, and Sydney was without a business\nor a profession; thus both found a great deal of time to think about the\nappropriateness of their becoming Excellencies. And as George ascended\nthe broad stairway, they were precisely the aunt and uncle he was most\npleased to point out, to a girl from out of town, as his appurtenances\nin the way of relatives. At sight of them the grandeur of the Amberson\nfamily was instantly conspicuous as a permanent thing: it was impossible\nto doubt that the Ambersons were entrenched, in their nobility and\nriches, behind polished and glittering barriers which were as solid as\nthey were brilliant, and would last.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V\n\n\n\nThe hero of the fete, with the dark-eyed little beauty upon his arm,\nreached the top of the second flight of stairs; and here, beyond a\nspacious landing, where two proud-like darkies tended a crystalline\npunch bowl, four wide archways in a rose-vine lattice framed gliding\nsilhouettes of waltzers, already smoothly at it to the castanets of\n\"La Paloma.\" Old John Minafer, evidently surfeited, was in the act of\nleaving these delights. \"D'want 'ny more o' that!\" he barked. \"Just\nslidin' around! Call that dancin'? Rather see a jig any day in the\nworld! They ain't very modest, some of 'em. I don't mind that, though.\nNot me!\"\n\nMiss Fanny Minafer was no longer in charge of him: he emerged from the\nballroom escorted by a middle-aged man of commonplace appearance. The\nescort had a dry, lined face upon which, not ornamentally but as a\nmatter of course, there grew a business man's short moustache; and his\nthin neck showed an Adam's apple, but not conspicuously, for there\nwas nothing conspicuous about him. Baldish, dim, quiet, he was an\nunnoticeable part of this festival, and although there were a dozen or\nmore middle-aged men present, not casually to be distinguished from him\nin general aspect, he was probably the last person in the big house at\nwhom a stranger would have glanced twice. It did not enter George's mind\nto mention to Miss Morgan that this was his father, or to say anything\nwhatever about him.\n\nMr. Minafer shook his son's hand unobtrusively in passing.\n\n\"I'll take Uncle John home,\" he said, in a low voice. \"Then I guess\nI'll go on home myself--I'm not a great hand at parties, you know.\nGood-night, George.\"\n\nGeorge murmured a friendly enough good-night without pausing. Ordinarily\nhe was not ashamed of the Minafers; he seldom thought about them at\nall, for he belonged, as most American children do, to the mother's\nfamily--but he was anxious not to linger with Miss Morgan in the\nvicinity of old John, whom he felt to be a disgrace.\n\nHe pushed brusquely through the fringe of calculating youths who were\ngathered in the arches, watching for chances to dance only with girls\nwho would soon be taken off their hands, and led his stranger lady out\nupon the floor. They caught the time instantly, and were away in the\nwaltz.\n\nGeorge danced well, and Miss Morgan seemed to float as part of the\nmusic, the very dove itself of \"La Paloma.\" They said nothing as they\ndanced; her eyes were cast down all the while--the prettiest gesture for\na dancer--and there was left in the universe, for each, of them, only\ntheir companionship in this waltz; while the faces of the other dancers,\nswimming by, denoted not people but merely blurs of colour. George\nbecame conscious of strange feelings within him: an exaltation of soul,\ntender, but indefinite, and seemingly located in the upper part of his\ndiaphragm.\n\nThe stopping of the music came upon him like the waking to an alarm\nclock; for instantly six or seven of the calculating persons about the\nentry-ways bore down upon Miss Morgan to secure dances. George had to do\nwith one already established as a belle, it seemed.\n\n\"Give me the next and the one after that,\" he said hurriedly, recovering\nsome presence of mind, just as the nearest applicant reached them. \"And\ngive me every third one the rest of the evening.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"Are you asking?\"\n\n\"What do you mean, 'asking'?\"\n\n\"It sounded as though you were just telling me to give you all those\ndances.\"\n\n\"Well, I want 'em!\" George insisted.\n\n\"What about all the other girls it's your duty to dance with?\"\n\n\"They'll have to go without,\" he said heartlessly; and then, with\nsurprising vehemence: \"Here! I want to know: Are you going to give me\nthose--\"\n\n\"Good gracious!\" she laughed. \"Yes!\"\n\nThe applicants flocked round her, urging contracts for what remained,\nbut they did not dislodge George from her side, though he made it\nevident that they succeeded in annoying him; and presently he\nextricated her from an accumulating siege--she must have connived in the\nextrication--and bore her off to sit beside him upon the stairway that\nled to the musicians' gallery, where they were sufficiently retired, yet\nhad a view of the room.\n\n\"How'd all those ducks get to know you so quick?\" George inquired, with\nlittle enthusiasm.\n\n\"Oh, I've been here a week.\"\n\n\"Looks as if you'd been pretty busy!\" he said. \"Most of those ducks, I\ndon't know what my mother wanted to invite 'em here for.\"\n\n\"Oh, I used to see something of a few of 'em. I was president of a club\nwe had here, and some of 'em belonged to it, but I don't care much for\nthat sort of thing any more. I really don't see why my mother invited\n'em.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it was on account of their parents,\" Miss Morgan suggested\nmildly. \"Maybe she didn't want to offend their fathers and mothers.\"\n\n\"Oh, hardly! I don't think my mother need worry much about offending\nanybody in this old town.\"\n\n\"It must be wonderful,\" said Miss Morgan. \"It must be wonderful, Mr.\nAmberson--Mr. Minafer, I mean.\"\n\n\"What must be wonderful?\"\n\n\"To be so important as that!\"\n\n\"That isn't 'important,\" George assured her. \"Anybody that really is\nanybody ought to be able to do about as they like in their own town, I\nshould think!\"\n\nShe looked at him critically from under her shading lashes--but her eyes\ngrew gentler almost at once. In truth, they became more appreciative\nthan critical. George's imperious good looks were altogether manly, yet\napproached actual beauty as closely as a boy's good looks should dare;\nand dance-music and flowers have some effect upon nineteen-year-old\ngirls as well as upon eighteen-year-old boys. Miss Morgan turned\nher eyes slowly from George, and pressed her face among the\nlilies-of-the-valley and violets of the pretty bouquet she carried,\nwhile, from the gallery above, the music of the next dance carolled out\nmerrily in a new two-step. The musicians made the melody gay for the\nChristmastime with chimes of sleighbells, and the entrance to the\nshadowed stairway framed the passing flushed and lively dancers, but\nneither George nor Miss Morgan suggested moving to join the dance.\n\nThe stairway was draughty: the steps were narrow and uncomfortable; no\nolder person would have remained in such a place. Moreover, these two\nyoung people were strangers to each other; neither had said anything in\nwhich the other had discovered the slightest intrinsic interest; there\nhad not arisen between them the beginnings of congeniality, or even of\nfriendliness--but stairways near ballrooms have more to answer for than\nhave moonlit lakes and mountain sunsets. Some day the laws of glamour\nmust be discovered, because they are so important that the world would\nbe wiser now if Sir Isaac Newton had been hit on the head, not by an\napple, but by a young lady.\n\nAge, confused by its own long accumulation of follies, is everlastingly\ninquiring, \"What does she see in him?\" as if young love came about\nthrough thinking--or through conduct. Age wants to know: \"What on earth\ncan they talk about?\" as if talking had anything to do with April rains!\nAt seventy, one gets up in the morning, finds the air sweet under a\nbright sun, feels lively; thinks, \"I am hearty, today,\" and plans to go\nfor a drive. At eighteen, one goes to a dance, sits with a stranger on\na stairway, feels peculiar, thinks nothing, and becomes incapable of any\nplan whatever. Miss Morgan and George stayed where they were.\n\nThey had agreed to this in silence and without knowing it; certainly\nwithout exchanging glances of intelligence--they had exchanged no\nglances at all. Both sat staring vaguely out into the ballroom, and, for\na time, they did not speak. Over their heads the music reached a\nclimax of vivacity: drums, cymbals, triangle, and sleighbells, beating,\nclashing, tinkling. Here and there were to be seen couples so carried\naway that, ceasing to move at the decorous, even glide, considered most\nknowing, they pranced and whirled through the throng, from wall to\nwall, galloping bounteously in abandon. George suffered a shock of\nvague surprise when he perceived that his aunt, Fanny Minafer, was the\nlady-half of one of these wild couples.\n\nFanny Minafer, who rouged a little, was like fruit which in some\nclimates dries with the bloom on. Her features had remained prettily\nchildlike; so had her figure, and there were times when strangers,\nseeing her across the street, took her to be about twenty; they were\nother times when at the same distance they took her to be about sixty,\ninstead of forty, as she was. She had old days and young days; old hours\nand young hours; old minutes and young minutes; for the change might\nbe that quick. An alteration in her expression, or a difference in\nthe attitude of her head, would cause astonishing indentations to\nappear--and behold, Fanny was an old lady! But she had been never more\nchildlike than she was tonight as she flew over the floor in the capable\narms of the queer-looking duck; for this person was her partner.\n\nThe queer-looking duck had been a real dancer in his day, it appeared;\nand evidently his day was not yet over. In spite of the headlong, gay\nrapidity with which he bore Miss Fanny about the big room, he danced\nauthoritatively, avoiding without effort the lightest collision with\nother couples, maintaining sufficient grace throughout his wildest\nmoments, and all the while laughing and talking with his partner. What\nwas most remarkable to George, and a little irritating, this stranger in\nthe Amberson Mansion had no vestige of the air of deference proper to\na stranger in such a place: he seemed thoroughly at home. He seemed\noffensively so, indeed, when, passing the entrance to the gallery\nstairway, he disengaged his hand from Miss Fanny's for an instant, and\nnot pausing in the dance, waved a laughing salutation more than cordial,\nthen capered lightly out of sight.\n\nGeorge gazed stonily at this manifestation, responding neither by word\nnor sign. \"How's that for a bit of freshness?\" he murmured.\n\n\"What was?\" Miss Morgan asked.\n\n\"That queer-looking duck waving his hand at me like that. Except he's\nthe Sharon girls' uncle I don't know him from Adam.\"\n\n\"You don't need to,\" she said. \"He wasn't waving his hand to you: he\nmeant me.\"\n\n\"Oh, he did?\" George was not mollified by the explanation. \"Everybody\nseems to mean you! You certainly do seem to've been pretty busy this\nweek you've been here!\"\n\nShe pressed her bouquet to her face again, and laughed into it, not\ndispleased. She made no other comment, and for another period neither\nspoke. Meanwhile the music stopped; loud applause insisted upon its\nrenewal; an encore was danced; there was an interlude of voices; and the\nchanging of partners began.\n\n\"Well,\" said George finally, \"I must say you don't seem to be much of a\nprattler. They say it's a great way to get a reputation for being wise,\nnever saying much. Don't you ever talk any?\"\n\n\"When people can understand,\" she answered.\n\nHe had been looking moodily out at the ballroom but he turned to her\nquickly, at this, saw that her eyes were sunny and content, over the top\nof her bouquet; and he consented to smile.\n\n\"Girls are usually pretty fresh!\" he said. \"They ought to go to a man's\ncollege about a year: they'd get taught a few things about freshness!\nWhat you got to do after two o'clock to-morrow afternoon?\"\n\n\"A whole lot of things. Every minute filled up.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said George. \"The snow's fine for sleighing: I'll come for\nyou in a cutter at ten minutes after two.\"\n\n\"I can't possibly go.\"\n\n\"If you don't,\" he said, \"I'm going to sit in the cutter in front of the\ngate, wherever you're visiting, all afternoon, and if you try to go out\nwith anybody else he's got to whip me before he gets you.\" And as she\nlaughed--though she blushed a little, too--he continued, seriously:\n\"If you think I'm not in earnest you're at liberty to make quite a big\nexperiment!\"\n\nShe laughed again. \"I don't think I've often had so large a compliment\nas that,\" she said, \"especially on such short notice--and yet, I don't\nthink I'll go with you.\n\n\"You be ready at ten minutes after two.\"\n\n\"No, I won't.\"\n\n\"Yes, you will!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"I will!\" And her partner for the next dance arrived,\nbreathless with searching.\n\n\"Don't forget I've got the third from now,\" George called after her.\n\n\"I won't.\"\n\n\"And every third one after that.\"\n\n\"I know!\" she called, over her partner's shoulder, and her voice was\namused--but meek.\n\nWhen \"the third from now\" came, George presented himself before her\nwithout any greeting, like a brother, or a mannerless old friend.\nNeither did she greet him, but moved away with him, concluding, as she\nwent, an exchange of badinage with the preceding partner: she had been\ntalkative enough with him, it appeared. In fact, both George and Miss\nMorgan talked much more to every one else that evening, than to\neach other; and they said nothing at all at this time. Both looked\npreoccupied, as they began to dance, and preserved a gravity, of\nexpression to the end of the number. And when \"the third one after that\"\ncame, they did not dance, but went back to the gallery stairway, seeming\nto have reached an understanding without any verbal consultation, that\nthis suburb was again the place for them.\n\n\"Well,\" said George, coolly, when they were seated, \"what did you say\nyour name was?\"\n\n\"Morgan.\"\n\n\"Funny name!\"\n\n\"Everybody else's name always is.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean it was really funny,\" George explained. \"That's just one\nof my crowd's bits of horsing at college. We always say 'funny name' no\nmatter what it is. I guess we're pretty fresh sometimes; but I knew your\nname was Morgan because my mother said so downstairs. I meant: what's\nthe rest of it?\"\n\n\"Lucy.\"\n\nHe was silent.\n\n\"Is 'Lucy' a funny name, too?\" she inquired.\n\n\"No. Lucy's very much all right!\" he said, and he went so far as to\nsmile. Even his Aunt Fanny admitted that when George smiled \"in a\ncertain way\" he was charming.\n\n\"Thanks about letting my name be Lucy,\" she said.\n\n\"How old are you?\" George asked.\n\n\"I don't really know, myself.\"\n\n\"What do you mean: you don't really know yourself?\"\n\n\"I mean I only know what they tell me. I believe them, of course, but\nbelieving isn't really knowing. You believe some certain day is your\nbirthday--at least, I suppose you do--but you don't really know it is\nbecause you can't remember.\"\n\n\"Look here!\" said George. \"Do you always talk like this?\"\n\nMiss Lucy Morgan laughed forgivingly, put her young head on one side,\nlike a bird, and responded cheerfully: \"I'm willing to learn wisdom.\nWhat are you studying in school?\"\n\n\"College!\"\n\n\"At the university! Yes. What are you studying there?\"\n\nGeorge laughed. \"Lot o' useless guff!\"\n\n\"Then why don't you study some useful guff?\"\n\n\"What do you mean: 'useful'?\"\n\n\"Something you'd use later, in your business or profession?\"\n\nGeorge waved his hand impatiently. \"I don't expect to go into any\n'business or profession.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"Certainly not!\" George was emphatic, being sincerely annoyed by a\nsuggestion which showed how utterly she failed to comprehend the kind of\nperson he was.\n\n\"Why not?\" she asked mildly.\n\n\"Just look at 'em!\" he said, almost with bitterness, and he made a\ngesture presumably intended to indicate the business and professional\nmen now dancing within range of vision. \"That's a fine career for a man,\nisn't it! Lawyers, bankers, politicians! What do they get out of life,\nI'd like to know! What do they ever know about real things? Where do\nthey ever get?\"\n\nHe was so earnest that she was surprised and impressed. Evidently he\nhad deep-seated ambitions, for he seemed to speak with actual emotion\nof these despised things which were so far beneath his planning for the\nfuture. She had a vague, momentary vision of Pitt, at twenty-one, prime\nminister of England; and she spoke, involuntarily in a lowered voice,\nwith deference:\n\n\"What do you want to be?\" she asked.\n\nGeorge answered promptly.\n\n\"A yachtsman,\" he said.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI\n\n\n\nHaving thus, in a word, revealed his ambition for a career above courts,\nmarts, and polling booths, George breathed more deeply than usual, and,\nturning his face from the lovely companion whom he had just made his\nconfidant, gazed out at the dancers with an expression in which there\nwas both sternness and a contempt for the squalid lives of the unyachted\nMidlanders before him. However, among them, he marked his mother; and\nhis sombre grandeur relaxed momentarily; a more genial light came into\nhis eyes.\n\nIsabel was dancing with the queer-looking duck; and it was to be noted\nthat the lively gentleman's gait was more sedate than it had been with\nMiss Fanny Minafer, but not less dexterous and authoritative. He was\ntalking to Isabel as gaily as he had talked to Miss Fanny, though with\nless laughter, and Isabel listened and answered eagerly: her colour\nwas high and her eyes had a look of delight. She saw George and the\nbeautiful Lucy on the stairway, and nodded to them. George waved his\nhand vaguely: he had a momentary return of that inexplicable uneasiness\nand resentment which had troubled him downstairs.\n\n\"How lovely your mother is!\" Lucy said\n\n\"I think she is,\" he agreed gently.\n\n\"She's the gracefulest woman in that ballroom. She dances like a girl of\nsixteen.\"\n\n\"Most girls of sixteen,\" said George, \"are bum dancers. Anyhow, I\nwouldn't dance with one unless I had to.\"\n\n\"Well, you'd better dance with your mother! I never saw anybody\nlovelier. How wonderfully they dance together!\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Your mother and--and the queer-looking duck,\" said Lucy. \"I'm going to\ndance with him pretty soon.\"\n\n\"I don't care--so long as you don't give him one of the numbers that\nbelong to me.\"\n\n\"I'll try to remember,\" she said, and thoughtfully lifted to her face\nthe bouquet of violets and lilies, a gesture which George noted without\napproval.\n\n\"Look here! Who sent you those flowers you keep makin' such a fuss\nover?\"\n\n\"He did.\"\n\n\"Who's 'he'?\"\n\n\"The queer-looking duck.\"\n\nGeorge feared no such rival; he laughed loudly. \"I s'pose he's some old\nwidower!\" he said, the object thus described seeming ignominious enough\nto a person of eighteen, without additional characterization. \"Some old\nwidower!\"\n\nLucy became serious at once. \"Yes, he is a widower,\" she said. \"I ought\nto have told you before; he's my father.\"\n\nGeorge stopped laughing abruptly. \"Well, that's a horse on me. If I'd\nknown he was your father, of course I wouldn't have made fun of him. I'm\nsorry.\"\n\n\"Nobody could make fun of him,\" she said quietly.\n\n\"Why couldn't they?\"\n\n\"It wouldn't make him funny: it would only make themselves silly.\"\n\nUpon this, George had a gleam of intelligence. \"Well, I'm not going to\nmake myself silly any more, then; I don't want to take chances like that\nwith you. But I thought he was the Sharon girls' uncle. He came with\nthem--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"I'm always late to everything: I wouldn't let them\nwait for me. We're visiting the Sharons.\"\n\n\"About time I knew that! You forget my being so fresh about your father,\nwill you? Of course he's a distinguished looking man, in a way.\"\n\nLucy was still serious. \"In a way?'\" she repeated. \"You mean, not in\nyour way, don't you?\"\n\nGeorge was perplexed. \"How do you mean: not in my way?\"\n\n\"People pretty often say 'in a way' and 'rather distinguished looking,'\nor 'rather' so-and-so, or 'rather' anything, to show that they're\nsuperior don't they? In New York last month I overheard a climber sort\nof woman speaking of me as 'little Miss Morgan,' but she didn't mean my\nheight; she meant that she was important. Her husband spoke of a\nfriend of mine as 'little Mr. Pembroke' and 'little Mr. Pembroke'\nis six-feet-three. This husband and wife were really so terribly\nunimportant that the only way they knew to pretend to be important was\ncalling people 'little' Miss or Mister so-and-so. It's a kind of snob\nslang, I think. Of course people don't always say 'rather' or 'in a way'\nto be superior.\"\n\n\"I should say not! I use both of 'em a great deal myself,\" said\nGeorge. \"One thing I don't see though: What's the use of a man being\nsix-feet-three? Men that size can't handle themselves as well as a man\nabout five-feet-eleven and a half can. Those long, gangling men, they're\nnearly always too kind of wormy to be any good in athletics, and they're\nso awkward they keep falling over chairs or--\"\n\n\"Mr. Pembroke is in the army,\" said Lucy primly. \"He's extraordinarily\ngraceful.\"\n\n\"In the army? Oh, I suppose he's some old friend of your father's.\"\n\n\"They got on very well,\" she said, \"after I introduced them.\"\n\nGeorge was a straightforward soul, at least. \"See here!\" he said. \"Are\nyou engaged to anybody?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nNot wholly mollified, he shrugged his shoulders. \"You seem to know a\ngood many people! Do you live in New York?\"\n\n\"No. We don't live anywhere.\"\n\n\"What you mean: you don't live anywhere?\"\n\n\"We've lived all over,\" she answered. \"Papa used to live here in this\ntown, but that was before I was born.\"\n\n\"What do you keep moving around so for? Is he a promoter?\"\n\n\"No. He's an inventor.\"\n\n\"What's he invented?\"\n\n\"Just lately,\" said Lucy, \"he's been working on a new kind of horseless\ncarriage.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm sorry for him,\" George said, in no unkindly spirit. \"Those\nthings are never going to amount to anything. People aren't going to\nspend their lives lying on their backs in the road and letting grease\ndrip in their faces. Horseless carriages are pretty much a failure, and\nyour father better not waste his time on 'em.\"\n\n\"Papa'd be so grateful,\" she returned, \"if he could have your advice.\"\n\nInstantly George's face became flushed. \"I don't know that I've done\nanything to be insulted for!\" he said. \"I don't see that what I said was\nparticularly fresh.\"\n\n\"No, indeed!\"\n\n\"Then what do you--\"\n\nShe laughed gaily. \"I don't! And I don't mind your being such a lofty\nperson at all. I think it's ever so interesting--but papa's a great\nman!\"\n\n\"Is he?\" George decided to be good-natured \"Well, let us hope so. I hope\nso, I'm sure.\"\n\nLooking at him keenly, she saw that the magnificent youth was incredibly\nsincere in this bit of graciousness. He spoke as a tolerant, elderly\nstatesman might speak of a promising young politician; and with her\neyes still upon him, Lucy shook her head in gentle wonder. \"I'm just\nbeginning to understand,\" she said.\n\n\"Understand what?\"\n\n\"What it means to be a real Amberson in this town. Papa told me\nsomething about it before we came, but I see he didn't say half enough!\"\n\nGeorge superbly took this all for tribute. \"Did your father say he knew\nthe family before he left here?\"\n\n\"Yes. I believe he was particularly a friend of your Uncle George; and\nhe didn't say so, but I imagine he must have known your mother very\nwell, too. He wasn't an inventor then; he was a young lawyer. The town\nwas smaller in those days, and I believe he was quite well known.\"\n\n\"I dare say. I've no doubt the family are all very glad to see him back,\nespecially if they used to have him at the house a good deal, as he told\nyou.\"\n\n\"I don't think he meant to boast of it,\" she said: \"He spoke of it quite\ncalmly.\"\n\nGeorge stared at her for a moment in perplexity, then perceiving that\nher intention was satirical, \"Girls really ought to go to a man's\ncollege,\" he said--\"just a month or two, anyhow; It'd take some of the\nfreshness out of 'em!\"\n\n\"I can't believe it,\" she retorted, as her partner for the next\ndance arrived. \"It would only make them a little politer on the\nsurface--they'd be really just as awful as ever, after you got to know\nthem a few minutes.\"\n\n\"What do you mean: 'after you got to know them a--'\"\n\nShe was departing to the dance. \"Janie and Mary Sharon told me all about\nwhat sort of a little boy you were,\" she said, over her shoulder. \"You\nmust think it out!\" She took wing away on the breeze of the waltz, and\nGeorge, having stared gloomily after her for a few moments, postponed\nfilling an engagement, and strolled round the fluctuating outskirts of\nthe dance to where his uncle, George Amberson, stood smilingly watching,\nunder one of the rose-vine arches at the entrance to the room.\n\n\"Hello, young namesake,\" said the uncle. \"Why lingers the laggard heel\nof the dancer? Haven't you got a partner?\"\n\n\"She's sitting around waiting for me somewhere,\" said George. \"See here:\nWho is this fellow Morgan that Aunt Fanny Minafer was dancing with a\nwhile?\"\n\nAmberson laughed. \"He's a man with a pretty daughter, Georgie. Meseemed\nyou've been spending the evening noticing something of that sort--or do\nI err?\"\n\n\"Never mind! What sort is he?\"\n\n\"I think we'll have to give him a character, Georgie. He's an old\nfriend; used to practice law here--perhaps he had more debts than cases,\nbut he paid 'em all up before he left town. Your question is purely\nmercenary, I take it: you want to know his true worth before proceeding\nfurther with the daughter. I cannot inform you, though I notice signs\nof considerable prosperity in that becoming dress of hers. However, you\nnever can tell, it is an age when every sacrifice is made for the young,\nand how your own poor mother managed to provide those genuine pearl\nstuds for you out of her allowance from father, I can't--\"\n\n\"Oh, dry up!\" said the nephew. \"I understand this Morgan--\"\n\n\"Mr. Eugene Morgan,\" his uncle suggested. \"Politeness requires that the\nyoung should--\"\n\n\"I guess the 'young' didn't know much about politeness in your day,\"\nGeorge interrupted. \"I understand that Mr. Eugene Morgan used to be a\ngreat friend of the family.\"\n\n\"Oh, the Minafers?\" the uncle inquired, with apparent innocence. \"No, I\nseem to recall that he and your father were not--\"\n\n\"I mean the Ambersons,\" George said impatiently. \"I understand he was a\ngood deal around the house here.\"\n\n\"What is your objection to that, George?\"\n\n\"What do you mean: my objection?\"\n\n\"You seemed to speak with a certain crossness.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said George, \"I meant he seems to feel awfully at home here. The\nway he was dancing with Aunt Fanny--\"\n\nAmberson laughed. \"I'm afraid your Aunt Fanny's heart was stirred by\nancient recollections, Georgie.\"\n\n\"You mean she used to be silly about him?\"\n\n\"She wasn't considered singular,\" said the uncle \"He was--he was\npopular. Could you bear a question?\"\n\n\"What do you mean: could I bear--\"\n\n\"I only wanted to ask: Do you take this same passionate interest in the\nparents of every girl you dance with? Perhaps it's a new fashion we old\nbachelors ought to take up. Is it the thing this year to--\"\n\n\"Oh, go on!\" said George, moving away. \"I only wanted to know--\" He\nleft the sentence unfinished, and crossed the room to where a girl sat\nwaiting for his nobility to find time to fulfil his contract with her\nfor this dance.\n\n\"Pardon f' keep' wait,\" he muttered, as she rose brightly to meet him;\nand she seemed pleased that he came at all--but George was used to\ngirls' looking radiant when he danced with them, and she had little\neffect upon him. He danced with her perfunctorily, thinking the while of\nMr. Eugene Morgan and his daughter. Strangely enough, his thoughts dwelt\nmore upon the father than the daughter, though George could not possibly\nhave given a reason--even to himself--for this disturbing preponderance.\n\nBy a coincidence, though not an odd one, the thoughts and conversation\nof Mr. Eugene Morgan at this very time were concerned with George\nAmberson Minafer, rather casually, it is true. Mr. Morgan had retired\nto a room set apart for smoking, on the second floor, and had found a\ngrizzled gentleman lounging in solitary possession.\n\n\"'Gene Morgan!\" this person exclaimed, rising with great heartiness.\n\"I'd heard you were in town--I don't believe you know me!\"\n\n\"Yes, I do, Fred Kinney!\" Mr. Morgan returned with equal friendliness.\n\"Your real face--the one I used to know--it's just underneath the one\nyou're masquerading in to-night. You ought to have changed it more if\nyou wanted a disguise.\"\n\n\"Twenty years!\" said Mr. Kinney. \"It makes some difference in faces, but\nmore in behaviour!\"\n\n\"It does so!\" his friend agreed with explosive emphasis. \"My own\nbehaviour began to be different about that long ago--quite suddenly.\"\n\n\"I remember,\" said Mr. Kinney sympathetically. \"Well, life's odd enough\nas we look back.\"\n\n\"Probably it's going to be odder still--if we could look forward.\"\n\n\"Probably.\"\n\nThey sat and smoked.\n\n\"However,\" Mr. Morgan remarked presently, \"I still dance like an Indian.\nDon't you?\"\n\n\"No. I leave that to my boy Fred. He does the dancing for the family.\"\n\n\"I suppose he's upstairs hard at it?\"\n\n\"No, he's not here.\" Mr. Kinney glanced toward the open door and lowered\nhis voice. \"He wouldn't come. It seems that a couple of years or so\nago he had a row with young Georgie Minafer. Fred was president of\na literary club they had, and he said this young Georgie got himself\nelected instead, in an overbearing sort of way. Fred's red-headed, you\nknow--I suppose you remember his mother? You were at the wedding--\"\n\n\"I remember the wedding,\" said Mr. Morgan. \"And I remember your bachelor\ndinner--most of it, that is.\"\n\n\"Well, my boy Fred's as red-headed now,\" Mr. Kinney went on, \"as\nhis mother was then, and he's very bitter about his row with Georgie\nMinafer. He says he'd rather burn his foot off than set it inside any\nAmberson house or any place else where young Georgie is. Fact is, the\nboy seemed to have so much feeling over it I had my doubts about coming\nmyself, but my wife said it was all nonsense; we mustn't humour Fred in\na grudge over such a little thing, and while she despised that Georgie\nMinafer, herself, as much as any one else did, she wasn't going to miss\na big Amberson show just on account of a boys' rumpus, and so on and so\non; and so we came.\"\n\n\"Do people dislike young Minafer generally?\"\n\n\"I don't know about 'generally.' I guess he gets plenty of toadying;\nbut there's certainly a lot of people that are glad to express their\nopinions about him.\"\n\n\"What's the matter with him?\"\n\n\"Too much Amberson, I suppose, for one thing. And for another, his\nmother just fell down and worshipped him from the day he was born That's\nwhat beats me! I don't have to tell you what Isabel Amberson is, Eugene\nMorgan. She's got a touch of the Amberson high stuff about her, but you\ncan't get anybody that ever knew her to deny that she's just about the\nfinest woman in the world.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Eugene Morgan. \"You can't get anybody to deny that.\"\n\n\"Then I can't see how she doesn't see the truth about that boy. He\nthinks he's a little tin god on wheels--and honestly, it makes some\npeople weak and sick just to think about him! Yet that high-spirited,\nintelligent woman, Isabel Amberson, actually sits and worships him! You\ncan hear it in her voice when she speaks to him or speaks of him. You\ncan see it in her eyes when she looks at him. My Lord! What does she see\nwhen she looks at him?\"\n\nMorgan's odd expression of genial apprehension deepened whimsically,\nthough it denoted no actual apprehension whatever, and cleared away from\nhis face altogether when he smiled; he became surprisingly winning\nand persuasive when he smiled. He smiled now, after a moment, at this\nquestion of his old friend. \"She sees something that we don't see,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"What does she see?\"\n\n\"An angel.\"\n\nKinney laughed aloud. \"Well, if she sees an angel when she looks at\nGeorgie Minafer, she's a funnier woman than I thought she was!\"\n\n\"Perhaps she is,\" said Morgan. \"But that's what she sees.\"\n\n\"My Lord! It's easy to see you've only known him an hour or so. In that\ntime have you looked at Georgie and seen an angel?\"\n\n\"No. All I saw was a remarkably good-looking fool-boy with the pride\nof Satan and a set of nice new drawing-room manners that he probably\ncouldn't use more than half an hour at a time without busting.\"\n\n\"Then what--\"\n\n\"Mothers are right,\" said Morgan. \"Do you think this young George is\nthe same sort of creature when he's with his mother that he is when he's\nbulldozing your boy Fred? Mothers see the angel in us because the angel\nis there. If it's shown to the mother, the son has got an angel to show,\nhasn't he? When a son cuts somebody's throat the mother only sees it's\npossible for a misguided angel to act like a devil--and she's entirely\nright about that!\"\n\nKinney laughed, and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. \"I remember\nwhat a fellow you always were to argue,\" he said. \"You mean Georgie\nMinafer is as much of an angel as any murderer is, and that Georgie's\nmother is always right.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid she always has been,\" Morgan said lightly.\n\nThe friendly hand remained upon his shoulder. \"She was wrong once, old\nfellow. At least, so it seemed to me.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Morgan, a little awkwardly. \"No--\"\n\nKinney relieved the slight embarrassment that had come upon both of\nthem: he laughed again. \"Wait till you know young Georgie a little\nbetter,\" he said. \"Something tells me you're going to change your mind\nabout his having an angel to show, if you see anything of him!\"\n\n\"You mean beauty's in the eye of the beholder, and the angel is all in\nthe eye of the mother. If you were a painter, Fred, you'd paint mothers\nwith angels' eyes holding imps in their laps. Me. I'll stick to the Old\nMasters and the cherubs.\"\n\nMr. Kinney looked at him musingly. \"Somebody's eyes must have been\npretty angelic,\" he said, \"if they've been persuading you that Georgie\nMinnafer is a cherub!\"\n\n\"They are,\" said Morgan heartily. \"They're more angelic than ever.\" And\nas a new flourish of music sounded overhead he threw away his cigarette,\nand jumped up briskly. \"Good-bye, I've got this dance with her.\"\n\n\"With whom?\"\n\n\"With Isabel!\"\n\nThe grizzled Mr. Kinney affected to rub his eyes. \"It startles me, your\njumping up like that to go and dance with Isabel Amberson! Twenty years\nseem to have passed--but have they? Tell me, have you danced with poor\nold Fanny, too, this evening?\"\n\n\"Twice!\"\n\n\"My Lord!\" Kinney groaned, half in earnest. \"Old times starting all over\nagain! My Lord!\"\n\n\"Old times?\" Morgan laughed gaily from the doorway. \"Not a bit! There\naren't any old times. When times are gone they're not old, they're dead!\nThere aren't any times but new times!\"\n\nAnd he vanished in such a manner that he seemed already to have begun\ndancing.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII\n\n\n\nThe appearance of Miss Lucy Morgan the next day, as she sat in George's\nfast cutter, proved so charming that her escort was stricken to soft\nwords instantly, and failed to control a poetic impulse. Her rich little\nhat was trimmed with black fur; her hair was almost as dark as the\nfur; a great boa of black fur was about her shoulders; her hands were\nvanished into a black muff; and George's laprobe was black. \"You look\nlike--\" he said. \"Your face looks like--it looks like a snowflake on a\nlump of coal. I mean a--a snowflake that would be a rose-leaf, too!\"\n\n\"Perhaps you'd better look at the reins,\" she returned. \"We almost upset\njust then.\"\n\nGeorge declined to heed this advice. \"Because there's too much pink in\nyour cheeks for a snowflake,\" he continued. \"What's that fairy story\nabout snow-white and rose-red--\"\n\n\"We're going pretty fast, Mr. Minafer!\"\n\n\"Well, you see, I'm only here for two weeks.\"\n\n\"I mean the sleigh!\" she explained. \"We're not the only people on the\nstreet, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, they'll keep out of the way.\"\n\n\"That's very patrician charioteering, but it seems to me a horse like\nthis needs guidance. I'm sure he's going almost twenty miles an hour.\"\n\n\"That's nothing,\" said George; but he consented to look forward again.\n\"He can trot under three minutes, all right.\" He laughed. \"I suppose\nyour father thinks he can build a horseless carriage to go that fast!\"\n\n\"They go that fast already, sometimes.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said George; \"they do--for about a hundred feet! Then they give a\nyell and burn up.\"\n\nEvidently she decided not to defend her father's faith in horseless\ncarriages, for she laughed, and said nothing. The cold air was\npolka-dotted with snowflakes, and trembled to the loud, continuous\njingling of sleighbells. Boys and girls, all aglow and panting jets of\nvapour, darted at the passing sleighs to ride on the runners, or sought\nto rope their sleds to any vehicle whatever, but the fleetest no more\nthan just touched the flying cutter, though a hundred soggy mittens\ngrasped for it, then reeled and whirled till sometimes the wearers\nof those daring mittens plunged flat in the snow and lay a-sprawl,\nreflecting. For this was the holiday time, and all the boys and girls in\ntown were out, most of them on National Avenue.\n\nBut there came panting and chugging up that flat thoroughfare a thing\nwhich some day was to spoil all their sleigh-time merriment--save for\nthe rashest and most disobedient. It was vaguely like a topless\nsurry, but cumbrous with unwholesome excrescences fore and aft, while\nunderneath were spinning leather belts and something that whirred and\nhowled and seemed to stagger. The ride-stealers made no attempt to\nfasten their sleds to a contrivance so nonsensical and yet so fearsome.\nInstead, they gave over their sport and concentrated all their energies\nin their lungs, so that up and down the street the one cry shrilled\nincreasingly: \"Git a hoss! Git a hoss! Git a hoss! Mister, why don't\nyou git a hoss?\" But the mahout in charge, sitting solitary on the front\nseat, was unconcerned--he laughed, and now and then ducked a snowball\nwithout losing any of his good-nature. It was Mr. Eugene Morgan who\nexhibited so cheerful a countenance between the forward visor of a\ndeer-stalker cap and the collar of a fuzzy gray ulster. \"Git a hoss!\"\nthe children shrieked, and gruffer voices joined them. \"Git a hoss! Git\na hoss! Git a hoss!\"\n\nGeorge Minafer was correct thus far: the twelve miles an hour of such a\nmachine would never over-take George's trotter. The cutter was already\nscurrying between the stone pillars at the entrance to Amberson\nAddition.\n\n\"That's my grandfather's,\" said George, nodding toward the Amberson\nMansion.\n\n\"I ought to know that!\" Lucy exclaimed. \"We stayed there late enough\nlast night: papa and I were almost the last to go. He and your mother\nand Miss Fanny Minafer got the musicians to play another waltz when\neverybody else had gone downstairs and the fiddles were being put away\nin their cases. Papa danced part of it with Miss Minafer and the rest\nwith your mother. Miss Minafer's your aunt, isn't she?\"\n\n\"Yes; she lives with us. I tease her a good deal.\"\n\n\"What about?\"\n\n\"Oh, anything handy--whatever's easy to tease an old maid about.\"\n\n\"Doesn't she mind?\"\n\n\"She usually has sort of a grouch on me,\" laughed George. \"Nothing much.\nThat's our house just beyond grandfather's.\" He waved a sealskin\ngauntlet to indicate the house Major Amberson had built for Isabel as a\nwedding gift. \"It's almost the same as grandfather's, only not as large\nand hasn't got a regular ballroom. We gave the dance, last night, at\ngrandfather's on account of the ballroom, and because I'm the only\ngrandchild, you know. Of course, some day that'll be my house, though I\nexpect my mother will most likely go on living where she does now, with\nfather and Aunt Fanny. I suppose I'll probably build a country house,\ntoo--somewhere East, I guess.\" He stopped speaking, and frowned as they\npassed a closed carriage and pair. The body of this comfortable vehicle\nsagged slightly to one side; the paint was old and seamed with hundreds\nof minute cracks like little rivers on a black map; the coachman, a fat\nand elderly darky, seemed to drowse upon the box; but the open window\nafforded the occupants of the cutter a glimpse of a tired, fine old\nface, a silk hat, a pearl tie, and an astrachan collar, evidently out to\ntake the air.\n\n\"There's your grandfather now,\" said Lucy. \"Isn't it?\"\n\nGeorge's frown was not relaxed. \"Yes, it is; and he ought to give\nthat rat-trap away and sell those old horses. They're a disgrace, all\nshaggy--not even clipped. I suppose he doesn't notice it--people get\nawful funny when they get old; they seem to lose their self-respect,\nsort of.\"\n\n\"He seemed a real Brummell to me,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, he keeps up about what he wears, well enough, but--well, look\nat that!\" He pointed to a statue of Minerva, one of the cast-iron\nsculptures Major Amberson had set up in opening the Addition years\nbefore. Minerva was intact, but a blackish streak descended unpleasantly\nfrom her forehead to the point of her straight nose, and a few other\nstreaks were sketched in a repellent dinge upon the folds of her\ndrapery.\n\n\"That must be from soot,\" said Lucy. \"There are so many houses around\nhere.\"\n\n\"Anyhow, somebody ought to see that these statues are kept clean. My\ngrandfather owns a good many of these houses, I guess, for renting.\nOf course, he sold most of the lots--there aren't any vacant ones, and\nthere used to be heaps of 'em when I was a boy. Another thing I don't\nthink he ought to allow a good many of these people bought big lots\nand they built houses on 'em; then the price of the land kept getting\nhigher, and they'd sell part of their yards and let the people that\nbought it build houses on it to live in, till they haven't hardly any\nof 'em got big, open yards any more, and it's getting all too much built\nup. The way it used to be, it was like a gentleman's country estate,\nand that's the way my grandfather ought to keep it. He lets these people\ntake too many liberties: they do anything they want to.\"\n\n\"But how could he stop them?\" Lucy asked, surely with reason. \"If he\nsold them the land, it's theirs, isn't it?\"\n\nGeorge remained serene in the face of this apparently difficult\nquestion. \"He ought to have all the trades-people boycott the families\nthat sell part of their yards that way. All he'd have to do would be to\ntell the trades-people they wouldn't get any more orders from the family\nif they didn't do it.\"\n\n\"From 'the family'? What family?\"\n\n\"Our family,\" said George, unperturbed. \"The Ambersons.\"\n\n\"I see!\" she murmured, and evidently she did see something that he did\nnot, for, as she lifted her muff to her face, he asked:\n\n\"What are you laughing at now?\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"You always seem to have some little secret of your own to get happy\nover!\"\n\n\"Always!\" she exclaimed. \"What a big word when we only met last night!\"\n\n\"That's another case of it,\" he said, with obvious sincerity. \"One of\nthe reasons I don't like you--much!--is you've got that way of seeming\nquietly superior to everybody else.\"\n\n\"I!\" she cried. \"I have?\"\n\n\"Oh, you think you keep it sort of confidential to yourself, but it's\nplain enough! I don't believe in that kind of thing.\"\n\n\"You don't?\"\n\n\"No,\" said George emphatically. \"Not with me! I think the world's like\nthis: there's a few people that their birth and position, and so on,\nputs them at the top, and they ought to treat each other entirely as\nequals.\" His voice betrayed a little emotion as he added, \"I wouldn't\nspeak like this to everybody.\"\n\n\"You mean you're confiding your deepest creed--or code, whatever it\nis--to me?\"\n\n\"Go on, make fun of it, then!\" George said bitterly. \"You do think\nyou're terribly clever! It makes me tired!\"\n\n\"Well, as you don't like my seeming 'quietly superior,' after this I'll\nbe noisily superior,\" she returned cheerfully. \"We aim to please!\"\n\n\"I had a notion before I came for you today that we were going to\nquarrel,\" he said.\n\n\"No, we won't; it takes two!\" She laughed and waved her muff toward a\nnew house, not quite completed, standing in a field upon their right.\nThey had passed beyond Amberson Addition, and were leaving the northern\nfringes of the town for the open country. \"Isn't that a beautiful\nhouse!\" she exclaimed. \"Papa and I call it our Beautiful House.\"\n\nGeorge was not pleased. \"Does it belong to you?\"\n\n\"Of course not! Papa brought me out here the other day, driving in\nhis machine, and we both loved it. It's so spacious and dignified and\nplain.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's plain enough!\" George grunted.\n\n\"Yet it's lovely; the gray-green roof and shutters give just enough\ncolour, with the trees, for the long white walls. It seems to me the\nfinest house I've seen in this part of the country.\"\n\nGeorge was outraged by an enthusiasm so ignorant--not ten minutes ago\nthey had passed the Amberson Mansion. \"Is that a sample of your taste in\narchitecture?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes. Why?\"\n\n\"Because it strikes me you better go somewhere and study the subject a\nlittle!\"\n\nLucy looked puzzled. \"What makes you have so much feeling about it? Have\nI offended you?\"\n\n\"Offended' nothing!\" George returned brusquely. \"Girls usually think\nthey know it all as soon as they've learned to dance and dress and flirt\na little. They never know anything about things like architecture, for\ninstance. That house is about as bum a house as any house I ever saw!\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Why?\" George repeated. \"Did you ask me why?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, for one thing--\" he paused--\"for one thing--well, just look at\nit! I shouldn't think you'd have to do any more than look at it if you'd\never given any attention to architecture.\"\n\n\"What is the matter with its architecture, Mr. Minafer?\"\n\n\"Well, it's this way,\" said George. \"It's like this. Well, for instance,\nthat house--well, it was built like a town house.\" He spoke of it in the\npast tense, because they had now left it far behind them--a human habit\nof curious significance. \"It was like a house meant for a street in the\ncity. What kind of a house was that for people of any taste to build out\nhere in the country?\"\n\n\"But papa says it's built that way on purpose. There are a lot of other\nhouses being built in this direction, and papa says the city's coming\nout this way; and in a year or two that house will be right in town.\"\n\n\"It was a bum house, anyhow,\" said George crossly. \"I don't even know\nthe people that are building it. They say a lot of riffraff come to town\nevery year nowadays and there's other riffraff that have always lived\nhere, and have made a little money, and act as if they owned the place.\nUncle Sydney was talking about it yesterday: he says he and some of\nhis friends are organizing a country club, and already some of these\nriffraff are worming into it--people he never heard of at all! Anyhow, I\nguess it's pretty clear you don't know a great deal about architecture.\"\n\nShe demonstrated the completeness of her amiability by laughing. \"I'll\nknow something about the North Pole before long,\" she said, \"if we keep\ngoing much farther in this direction!\"\n\nAt this he was remorseful. \"All right, we'll turn, and drive south\nawhile till you get warmed up again. I expect we have been going against\nthe wind about long enough. Indeed, I'm sorry!\"\n\nHe said, \"Indeed, I'm sorry,\" in a nice way, and looked very strikingly\nhandsome when he said it, she thought. No doubt it is true that there\nis more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner repented than over all the\nsaints who consistently remain holy, and the rare, sudden gentlenesses\nof arrogant people have infinitely more effect than the continual\ngentleness of gentle people. Arrogance turned gentle melts the\nheart; and Lucy gave her companion a little sidelong, sunny nod of\nacknowledgment. George was dazzled by the quick glow of her eyes, and\nfound himself at a loss for something to say.\n\nHaving turned about, he kept his horse to a walk, and at this gait\nthe sleighbells tinkled but intermittently. Gleaming wanly through the\nwhitish vapour that kept rising from the trotter's body and flanks, they\nwere like tiny fog-bells, and made the only sounds in a great winter\nsilence. The white road ran between lonesome rail fences; and frozen\nbarnyards beyond the fences showed sometimes a harrow left to rust, with\nits iron seat half filled with stiffened snow, and sometimes an old\ndead buggy, its wheels forever set, it seemed, in the solid ice of deep\nruts. Chickens scratched the metallic earth with an air of protest, and\na masterless ragged colt looked up in sudden horror at the mild tinkle\nof the passing bells, then blew fierce clouds of steam at the sleigh.\nThe snow no longer fell, and far ahead, in a grayish cloud that lay upon\nthe land, was the town.\n\nLucy looked at this distant thickening reflection. \"When we get this\nfar out we can see there must be quite a little smoke hanging over the\ntown,\" she said. \"I suppose that's because it's growing. As it grows\nbigger it seems to get ashamed of itself, so it makes this cloud and\nhides in it. Papa says it used to be a bit nicer when he lived here:\nhe always speaks of it differently--he always has a gentle look, a\nparticular tone of voice, I've noticed. He must have been very fond of\nit. It must have been a lovely place: everybody must have been so jolly.\nFrom the way he talks, you'd think life here then was just one long\nmidsummer serenade. He declares it was always sunshine, that the air\nwasn't like the air anywhere else--that, as he remembers it, there\nalways seemed to be gold-dust in the air. I doubt it! I think it doesn't\nseem to be duller air to him now just on account of having a little soot\nin it sometimes, but probably because he was twenty years younger then.\nIt seems to me the gold-dust he thinks was here is just his being young\nthat he remembers. I think it was just youth. It is pretty pleasant\nto be young, isn't it?\" She laughed absently, then appeared to become\nwistful. \"I wonder if we really do enjoy it as much as we'll look back\nand think we did! I don't suppose so. Anyhow, for my part I feel as if\nI must be missing something about it, somehow, because I don't ever seem\nto be thinking about what's happening at the present moment; I'm always\nlooking forward to something--thinking about things that will happen\nwhen I'm older.\"\n\n\"You're a funny girl,\" George said gently. \"But your voice sounds pretty\nnice when you think and talk along together like that!\"\n\nThe horse shook himself all over, and the impatient sleighbells made his\nwish audible. Accordingly, George tightened the reins, and the cutter\nwas off again at a three-minute trot, no despicable rate of speed. It\nwas not long before they were again passing Lucy's Beautiful House,\nand here George thought fit to put an appendix to his remark. \"You're a\nfunny girl, and you know a lot--but I don't believe you know much about\narchitecture!\"\n\nComing toward them, black against the snowy road, was a strange\nsilhouette. It approached moderately and without visible means of\nprogression, so the matter seemed from a distance; but as the cutter\nshortened the distance, the silhouette was revealed to be Mr. Morgan's\nhorseless carriage, conveying four people atop: Mr. Morgan with George's\nmother beside him, and, in the rear seat, Miss Fanny Minafer and the\nHonorable George Amberson. All four seemed to be in the liveliest\nhumour, like high-spirited people upon a new adventure; and Isabel waved\nher handkerchief dashingly as the cutter flashed by them.\n\n\"For the Lord's sake!\" George gasped.\n\n\"Your mother's a dear,\" said Lucy. \"And she does wear the most\nbewitching things! She looked like a Russian princess, though I doubt if\nthey're that handsome.\"\n\nGeorge said nothing; he drove on till they had crossed Amberson Addition\nand reached the stone pillars at the head of National Avenue. There he\nturned.\n\n\"Let's go back and take another look at that old sewing-machine,\" he\nsaid. \"It certainly is the weirdest, craziest--\"\n\nHe left the sentence unfinished, and presently they were again in sight\nof the old sewing-machine. George shouted mockingly.\n\nAlas! three figures stood in the road, and a pair of legs, with the toes\nturned up, indicated that a fourth figure lay upon its back in the snow,\nbeneath a horseless carriage that had decided to need a horse.\n\nGeorge became vociferous with laughter, and coming up at his trotter's\nbest gait, snow spraying from runners and every hoof, swerved to the\nside of the road and shot by, shouting, \"Git a hoss! Git a hoss! Git a\nhoss!\"\n\nThree hundred yards away he turned and came back, racing; leaning out\nas he passed, to wave jeeringly at the group about the disabled machine:\n\"Git a hoss! Git a hoss! Git a--\"\n\nThe trotter had broken into a gallop, and Lucy cried a warning: \"Be\ncareful!\" she said. \"Look where you're driving! There's a ditch on that\nside. Look--\"\n\nGeorge turned too late; the cutter's right runner went into the ditch\nand snapped off; the little sleigh upset, and, after dragging its\noccupants some fifteen yards, left them lying together in a bank\nof snow. Then the vigorous young horse kicked himself free of all\nannoyances, and disappeared down the road, galloping cheerfully.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII\n\n\n\nWhen George regained some measure of his presence of mind, Miss Lucy\nMorgan's cheek, snowy and cold, was pressing his nose slightly to one\nside; his right arm was firmly about her neck; and a monstrous amount\nof her fur boa seemed to mingle with an equally unplausible quantity of\nsnow in his mouth. He was confused, but conscious of no objection to any\nof these juxtapositions. She was apparently uninjured, for she sat up,\nhatless, her hair down, and said mildly:\n\n\"Good heavens!\"\n\nThough her father had been under his machine when they passed, he\nwas the first to reach them. He threw himself on his knees beside his\ndaughter, but found her already laughing, and was reassured. \"They're\nall right,\" he called to Isabel, who was running toward them, ahead of\nher brother and Fanny Minafer. \"This snowbank's a feather bed--nothing\nthe matter with them at all. Don't look so pale!\"\n\n\"Georgie!\" she gasped. \"Georgie!\"\n\nGeorgie was on his feet, snow all over him.\n\n\"Don't make a fuss, mother! Nothing's the matter. That darned silly\nhorse--\"\n\nSudden tears stood in Isabel's eyes. \"To see you down\nunderneath--dragging--oh--\" Then with shaking hands she began to brush\nthe snow from him.\n\n\"Let me alone,\" he protested. \"You'll ruin your gloves. You're getting\nsnow all over you, and--\"\n\n\"No, no!\" she cried. \"You'll catch cold; you mustn't catch cold!\" And\nshe continued to brush him.\n\nAmberson had brought Lucy's hat; Miss Fanny acted as lady's-maid; and\nboth victims of the accident were presently restored to about their\nusual appearance and condition of apparel. In fact, encouraged by the\ntwo older gentlemen, the entire party, with one exception, decided that\nthe episode was after all a merry one, and began to laugh about it. But\nGeorge was glummer than the December twilight now swiftly closing in.\n\n\"That darned horse!\" he said.\n\n\"I wouldn't bother about Pendennis, Georgie,\" said his uncle. \"You can\nsend a man out for what's left of the cutter tomorrow, and Pendennis\nwill gallop straight home to his stable: he'll be there a long while\nbefore we will, because all we've got to depend on to get us home is\nGene Morgan's broken-down chafing-dish yonder.\"\n\nThey were approaching the machine as he spoke, and his friend, again\nunderneath it, heard him. He emerged, smiling. \"She'll go,\" he said.\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"All aboard!\"\n\nHe offered his hand to Isabel. She was smiling but still pale, and her\neyes, in spite of the smile, kept upon George in a shocked anxiety. Miss\nFanny had already mounted to the rear seat, and George, after helping\nLucy Morgan to climb up beside his aunt, was following. Isabel saw\nthat his shoes were light things of patent leather, and that snow was\nclinging to them. She made a little rush toward him, and, as one of his\nfeet rested on the iron step of the machine, in mounting, she began to\nclean the snow from his shoe with her almost aerial lace handkerchief.\n\"You mustn't catch cold!\" she cried.\n\n\"Stop that!\" George shouted, and furiously withdrew his foot.\n\n\"Then stamp the snow off,\" she begged. \"You mustn't ride with wet feet.\"\n\n\"They're not!\" George roared, thoroughly outraged. \"For heaven's sake\nget in! You're standing in the snow yourself. Get in!\"\n\nIsabel consented, turning to Morgan, whose habitual expression of\napprehensiveness was somewhat accentuated. He climbed up after her,\nGeorge Amberson having gone to the other side. \"You're the same Isabel\nI used to know!\" he said in a low voice. \"You're a divinely ridiculous\nwoman.\"\n\n\"Am I, Eugene?\" she said, not displeased. \"'Divinely' and 'ridiculous'\njust counterbalance each other, don't they? Plus one and minus one equal\nnothing; so you mean I'm nothing in particular?\"\n\n\"No,\" he answered, tugging at a lever. \"That doesn't seem to be\nprecisely what I meant. There!\" This exclamation referred to the\nsubterranean machinery, for dismaying sounds came from beneath the\nfloor, and the vehicle plunged, then rolled noisily forward.\n\n\"Behold!\" George Amberson exclaimed. \"She does move! It must be another\naccident.\"\n\n\"Accident?\" Morgan shouted over the din. \"No! She breathes, she stirs;\nshe seems to feel a thrill of life along her keel!\" And he began to sing\n\"The Star Spangled Banner.\"\n\nAmberson joined him lustily, and sang on when Morgan stopped. The\ntwilight sky cleared, discovering a round moon already risen; and the\nmusical congressman hailed this bright presence with the complete text\nand melody of \"The Danube River.\"\n\nHis nephew, behind, was gloomy. He had overheard his mother's\nconversation with the inventor: it seemed curious to him that this\nMorgan, of whom he had never heard until last night, should be using the\nname \"Isabel\" so easily; and George felt that it was not just the thing\nfor his mother to call Morgan \"Eugene;\" the resentment of the previous\nnight came upon George again. Meanwhile, his mother and Morgan continued\ntheir talk; but he could no longer hear what they said; the noise of\nthe car and his uncle's songful mood prevented. He marked how animated\nIsabel seemed; it was not strange to see his mother so gay, but it was\nstrange that a man not of the family should be the cause of her gaiety.\nAnd George sat frowning.\n\nFanny Minafer had begun to talk to Lucy. \"Your father wanted to prove\nthat his horseless carriage would run, even in the snow,\" she said. \"It\nreally does, too.\"\n\n\"Of course!\"\n\n\"It's so interesting! He's been telling us how he's going to change it.\nHe says he's going to have wheels all made of rubber and blown up with\nair. I don't understand what he means at all; I should think they'd\nexplode--but Eugene seems to be very confident. He always was confident,\nthough. It seems so like old times to hear him talk!\"\n\nShe became thoughtful, and Lucy turned to George. \"You tried to swing\nunderneath me and break the fall for me when we went over,\" she said. \"I\nknew you were doing that, and--it was nice of you.\"\n\n\"Wasn't any fall to speak of,\" he returned brusquely. \"Couldn't have\nhurt either of us.\"\n\n\"Still it was friendly of you--and awfully quick, too. I'll not--I'll\nnot forget it!\"\n\nHer voice had a sound of genuineness, very pleasant; and George began to\nforget his annoyance with her father. This annoyance of his had not\nbeen alleviated by the circumstance that neither of the seats of the\nold sewing-machine was designed for three people, but when his neighbour\nspoke thus gratefully, he no longer minded the crowding--in fact, it\npleased him so much that he began to wish the old sewing-machine would\ngo even slower. And she had spoken no word of blame for his letting that\ndarned horse get the cutter into the ditch. George presently addressed\nher hurriedly, almost tremulously, speaking close to her ear:\n\n\"I forgot to tell you something: you're pretty nice! I thought so the\nfirst second I saw you last night. I'll come for you tonight and take\nyou to the Assembly at the Amberson Hotel. You're going, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, but I'm going with papa and the Sharons I'll see you there.\"\n\n\"Looks to me as if you were awfully conventional,\" George grumbled; and\nhis disappointment was deeper than he was willing to let her see--though\nshe probably did see. \"Well, we'll dance the cotillion together,\nanyhow.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not. I promised Mr. Kinney.\"\n\n\"What!\" George's tone was shocked, as at incredible news. \"Well, you\ncould break that engagement, I guess, if you wanted to! Girls always can\nget out of things when they want to. Won't you?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I promised him. Several days ago.\"\n\nGeorge gulped, and lowered his pride, \"I don't--oh, look here! I only\nwant to go to that thing tonight to get to see something of you; and if\nyou don't dance the cotillion with me, how can I? I'll only be here two\nweeks, and the others have got all the rest of your visit to see you.\nWon't you do it, please?\"\n\n\"I couldn't.\"\n\n\"See here!\" said the stricken George. \"If you're going to decline to\ndance that cotillion with me simply because you've promised a--a--a\nmiserable red-headed outsider like Fred Kinney, why we might as well\nquit!\"\n\n\"Quit what?\"\n\n\"You know perfectly well what I mean,\" he said huskily.\n\n\"I don't.\"\n\n\"Well, you ought to!\"\n\n\"But I don't at all!\"\n\nGeorge, thoroughly hurt, and not a little embittered, expressed himself\nin a short outburst of laughter: \"Well, I ought to have seen it!\"\n\n\"Seen what?\"\n\n\"That you might turn out to be a girl who'd like a fellow of the\nred-headed Kinney sort. I ought to have seen it from the first!\"\n\nLucy bore her disgrace lightly. \"Oh, dancing a cotillion with a person\ndoesn't mean that you like him--but I don't see anything in particular\nthe matter with Mr. Kinney. What is?\"\n\n\"If you don't see anything the matter with him for yourself,\" George\nresponded, icily, \"I don't think pointing it out would help you. You\nprobably wouldn't understand.\"\n\n\"You might try,\" she suggested. \"Of course I'm a stranger here, and if\npeople have done anything wrong or have something unpleasant about\nthem, I wouldn't have any way of knowing it, just at first. If poor Mr.\nKinney--\"\n\n\"I prefer not to discuss it,\" said George curtly. \"He's an enemy of\nmine.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I prefer not to discuss it.\"\n\n\"Well, but--\"\n\n\"I prefer not to discuss it!\"\n\n\"Very well.\" She began to hum the air of the song which Mr. George\nAmberson was now discoursing, \"O moon of my delight that knows no\nwane\"--and there was no further conversation on the back seat.\n\nThey had entered Amberson Addition, and the moon of Mr. Amberson's\ndelight was overlaid by a slender Gothic filagree; the branches that\nsprang from the shade trees lining the street. Through the windows of\nmany of the houses rosy lights were flickering; and silver tinsel and\nevergreen wreaths and brilliant little glass globes of silver and wine\ncolour could be seen, and glimpses were caught of Christmas trees, with\npeople decking them by firelight--reminders that this was Christmas Eve.\nThe ride-stealers had disappeared from the highway, though now and then,\nover the gasping and howling of the horseless carriage, there came a\nshrill jeer from some young passer-by upon the sidewalk:\n\n\"Mister, fer heaven's sake go an' git a hoss! Git a hoss! Git a hoss!\"\n\nThe contrivance stopped with a heart-shaking jerk before Isabel's house.\nThe gentlemen jumped down, helping Isabel and Fanny to descend; there\nwere friendly leavetakings--and one that was not precisely friendly.\n\n\"It's 'au revoir,' till to-night, isn't it?\" Lucy asked, laughing.\n\n\"Good afternoon!\" said George, and he did not wait, as his relatives\ndid, to see the old sewing machine start briskly down the street, toward\nthe Sharons'; its lighter load consisting now of only Mr. Morgan and his\ndaughter. George went into the house at once.\n\nHe found his father reading the evening paper in the library. \"Where are\nyour mother and your Aunt Fanny?\" Mr. Minafer inquired, not looking up.\n\n\"They're coming,\" said his son; and, casting himself heavily into a\nchair, stared at the fire.\n\nHis prediction was verified a few moments later; the two ladies came\nin cheerfully, unfastening their fur cloaks. \"It's all right, Georgie,\"\nsaid Isabel. \"Your Uncle George called to us that Pendennis got home\nsafely. Put your shoes close to the fire, dear, or else go and change\nthem.\" She went to her husband and patted him lightly on the shoulder,\nan action which George watched with sombre moodiness. \"You might dress\nbefore long,\" she suggested. \"We're all going to the Assembly, after\ndinner, aren't we? Brother George said he'd go with us.\"\n\n\"Look here,\" said George abruptly. \"How about this man Morgan and his\nold sewing-machine? Doesn't he want to get grandfather to put money into\nit? Isn't he trying to work Uncle George for that? Isn't that what he's\nup to?\"\n\nIt was Miss Fanny who responded. \"You little silly!\" she cried, with\nsurprising sharpness. \"What on earth are you talking about? Eugene\nMorgan's perfectly able to finance his own inventions these days.\"\n\n\"I'll bet he borrows money of Uncle George,\" the nephew insisted.\n\nIsabel looked at him in grave perplexity. \"Why do you say such a thing,\nGeorge?\" she asked.\n\n\"He strikes me as that sort of man,\" he answered doggedly. \"Isn't he,\nfather?\"\n\nMinafer set down his paper for the moment. \"He was a fairly wild young\nfellow twenty years ago,\" he said, glancing at his wife absently. \"He\nwas like you in one thing, Georgie; he spent too much money--only he\ndidn't have any mother to get money out of a grandfather for him, so he\nwas usually in debt. But I believe I've heard he's done fairly well of\nlate years. No, I can't say I think he's a swindler, and I doubt if he\nneeds anybody else's money to back his horseless carriage.\"\n\n\"Well, what's he brought the old thing here for, then? People that\nown elephants don't take them elephants around with 'em when they go\nvisiting. What's he got it here for?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know,\" said Mr. Minafer, resuming his paper. \"You\nmight ask him.\"\n\nIsabel laughed, and patted her husband's shoulder again. \"Aren't you\ngoing to dress? Aren't we all going to the dance?\"\n\nHe groaned faintly. \"Aren't your brother and Georgie escorts enough for\nyou and Fanny?\"\n\n\"Wouldn't you enjoy it at all?\"\n\n\"You know I don't.\"\n\nIsabel let her hand remain upon his shoulder a moment longer; she stood\nbehind him, looking into the fire, and George, watching her broodingly,\nthought there was more colour in her face than the reflection of the\nflames accounted for. \"Well, then,\" she said indulgently, \"stay at home\nand be happy. We won't urge you if you'd really rather not.\"\n\n\"I really wouldn't,\" he said contentedly.\n\nHalf an hour later, George was passing through the upper hall, in a\nbath-robe stage of preparation for the evening's' gaieties, when he\nencountered his Aunt Fanny. He stopped her. \"Look here!\" he said.\n\n\"What in the world is the matter with you?\" she demanded, regarding\nhim with little amiability. \"You look as if you were rehearsing for a\nvillain in a play. Do change your expression!\"\n\nHis expression gave no sign of yielding to the request; on the contrary,\nits somberness deepened. \"I suppose you don't know why father doesn't\nwant to go tonight,\" he said solemnly. \"You're his only sister, and yet\nyou don't know!\"\n\n\"He never wants to go anywhere that I ever heard of,\" said Fanny. \"What\nis the matter with you?\"\n\n\"He doesn't want to go because he doesn't like this man Morgan.\"\n\n\"Good gracious!\" Fanny cried impatiently. \"Eugene Morgan isn't in your\nfather's thoughts at all, one way or the other. Why should he be?\"\n\nGeorge hesitated. \"Well--it strikes me--Look here, what makes you\nand--and everybody--so excited over him?\"\n\n\"Excited!\" she jeered. \"Can't people be glad to see an old friend\nwithout silly children like you having to make a to-do about it? I've\njust been in your mother's room suggesting that she might give a little\ndinner for them--\"\n\n\"For who?\"\n\n\"For whom, Georgie! For Mr. Morgan and his daughter.\"\n\n\"Look here!\" George said quickly. \"Don't do that! Mother mustn't do\nthat. It wouldn't look well.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't look well!\" Fanny mocked him; and her suppressed vehemence\nbetrayed a surprising acerbity. \"See here, Georgie Minafer, I suggest\nthat you just march straight on into your room and finish your dressing!\nSometimes you say things that show you have a pretty mean little mind!\"\n\nGeorge was so astounded by this outburst that his indignation was\ndelayed by his curiosity. \"Why, what upsets you this way?\" he inquired.\n\n\"I know what you mean,\" she said, her voice still lowered, but not\ndecreasing in sharpness. \"You're trying to insinuate that I'd get\nyour mother to invite Eugene Morgan here on my account because he's a\nwidower!\"\n\n\"I am?\" George gasped, nonplussed. \"I'm trying to insinuate that you're\nsetting your cap at him and getting mother to help you? Is that what you\nmean?\"\n\nBeyond a doubt that was what Miss Fanny meant. She gave him a white-hot\nlook. \"You attend to your own affairs!\" she whispered fiercely, and\nswept away.\n\nGeorge, dumfounded, returned to his room for meditation.\n\nHe had lived for years in the same house with his Aunt Fanny, and it\nnow appeared that during all those years he had been thus intimately\nassociating with a total stranger. Never before had he met the\npassionate lady with whom he had just held a conversation in the hall.\nSo she wanted to get married! And wanted George's mother to help her\nwith this horseless-carriage widower!\n\n\"Well, I will be shot!\" he muttered aloud. \"I will--I certainly will be\nshot!\" And he began' to laugh. \"Lord 'lmighty!\"\n\nBut presently, at the thought of the horseless-carriage widower's\ndaughter, his grimness returned, and he resolved upon a line of conduct\nfor the evening. He would nod to her carelessly when he first saw her;\nand, after that, he would notice her no more: he would not dance with\nher; he would not favour her in the cotillion--he would not go near her!\n\nHe descended to dinner upon the third urgent summons of a coloured\nbutler, having spent two hours dressing--and rehearsing.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX\n\n\nThe Honourable George Amberson was a congressman who led cotillions--the\nsort of congressman an Amberson would be. He did it negligently,\ntonight, yet with infallible dexterity, now and then glancing humorously\nat the spectators, people of his own age. They were seated in a tropical\ngrove at one end of the room whither they had retired at the beginning\nof the cotillion, which they surrendered entirely to the twenties and\nthe late 'teens. And here, grouped with that stately pair, Sydney and\nAmelia Amberson, sat Isabel with Fanny, while Eugene Morgan appeared to\nbestow an amiable devotion impartially upon the three sisters-in-law.\nFanny watched his face eagerly, laughing at everything he said; Amelia\nsmiled blandly, but rather because of graciousness than because of\ninterest; while Isabel, looking out at the dancers, rhythmically moved a\ngreat fan of blue ostrich feathers, listened to Eugene thoughtfully, yet\nall the while kept her shining eyes on Georgie.\n\nGeorgie had carried out his rehearsed projects with precision, he had\ngiven Miss Morgan a nod studied into perfection during his lengthy\ntoilet before dinner. \"Oh, yes, I do seem to remember that curious\nlittle outsider!\" this nod seemed to say. Thereafter, all cognizance\nof her evaporated: the curious little outsider was permitted no further\nexistence worth the struggle. Nevertheless, she flashed in the corner\nof his eye too often. He was aware of her dancing demurely, and of her\nviciously flirtatious habit of never looking up at her partner,\nbut keeping her eyes concealed beneath downcast lashes; and he had\nover-sufficient consciousness of her between the dances, though it was\nnot possible to see her at these times, even if he had cared to look\nfrankly in her direction--she was invisible in a thicket of young\ndresscoats. The black thicket moved as she moved and her location was\nhatefully apparent, even if he had not heard her voice laughing from the\nthicket. It was annoying how her voice, though never loud, pursued him.\nNo matter how vociferous were other voices, all about, he seemed unable\nto prevent himself from constantly recognizing hers. It had a quaver in\nit, not pathetic--rather humorous than pathetic--a quality which annoyed\nhim to the point of rage, because it was so difficult to get away from.\nShe seemed to be having a \"wonderful time!\"\n\nAn unbearable soreness accumulated in his chest: his dislike of the girl\nand her conduct increased until he thought of leaving this sickening\nAssembly and going home to bed. That would show her! But just then\nhe heard her laughing, and decided that it wouldn't show her. So he\nremained.\n\nWhen the young couples seated themselves in chairs against the walls,\nround three sides of the room, for the cotillion, George joined\na brazen-faced group clustering about the doorway--youths with no\npartners, yet eligible to be \"called out\" and favoured. He marked that\nhis uncle placed the infernal Kinney and Miss Morgan, as the leading\ncouple, in the first chairs at the head of the line upon the leader's\nright; and this disloyalty on the part of Uncle George was inexcusable,\nfor in the family circle the nephew had often expressed his opinion\nof Fred Kinney. In his bitterness, George uttered a significant\nmonosyllable.\n\nThe music flourished; whereupon Mr. Kinney, Miss Morgan, and six of\ntheir neighbours rose and waltzed knowingly. Mr. Amberson's whistle\nblew;' then the eight young people went to the favour-table and were\ngiven toys and trinkets wherewith to delight the new partners it was now\ntheir privilege to select. Around the walls, the seated non-participants\nin this ceremony looked rather conscious; some chattered, endeavouring\nnot to appear expectant; some tried not to look wistful; and others were\nfrankly solemn. It was a trying moment; and whoever secured a favour,\nthis very first shot, might consider the portents happy for a successful\nevening.\n\nHolding their twinkling gewgaws in their hands, those about to bestow\nhonour came toward the seated lines, where expressions became\nfeverish. Two of the approaching girls seemed to wander, not finding a\npredetermined object in sight; and these two were Janie Sharon, and her\ncousin, Lucy. At this, George Amberson Minafer, conceiving that he had\nlittle to anticipate from either, turned a proud back upon the room and\naffected to converse with his friend, Mr. Charlie Johnson.\n\nThe next moment a quick little figure intervened between the two. It was\nLucy, gaily offering a silver sleighbell decked with white ribbon.\n\n\"I almost couldn't find you!\" she cried.\n\nGeorge stared, took her hand, led her forth in silence, danced with her.\nShe seemed content not to talk; but as the whistle blew, signalling that\nthis episode was concluded, and he conducted her to her seat, she lifted\nthe little bell toward him. \"You haven't taken your favour. You're\nsupposed to pin it on your coat,\" she said. \"Don't you want it?\"\n\n\"If you insist!\" said George stiffly. And he bowed her into her chair;\nthen turned and walked away, dropping the sleighbell haughtily into his\ntrousers' pocket.\n\nThe figure proceeded to its conclusion, and George was given other\nsleighbells, which he easily consented to wear upon his lapel; but, as\nthe next figure 'began, he strolled with a bored air to the tropical\ngrove, where sat his elders, and seated himself beside his Uncle Sydney.\nHis mother leaned across Miss Fanny, raising her voice over the music to\nspeak to him.\n\n\"Georgie, nobody will be able to see you here. You'll not be favoured.\nYou ought to be where you can dance.\"\n\n\"Don't care to,\" he returned. \"Bore!\"\n\n\"But you ought--\" She stopped and laughed, waving her fan to direct his\nattention behind him. \"Look! Over your shoulder!\"\n\nHe turned, and discovered Miss Lucy Morgan in the act of offering him a\npurple toy balloon.\n\n\"I found you!\" she laughed.\n\nGeorge was startled. \"Well--\" he said.\n\n\"Would you rather 'sit it out?'\" Lucy asked quickly, as he did not move.\n\"I don't care to dance if you--\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, rising. \"It would be better to dance.\" His tone was\nsolemn, and solemnly he departed with her from the grove. Solemnly he\ndanced with her.\n\nFour times, with not the slightest encouragement, she brought him a\nfavour: 'four times in succession. When the fourth came, \"Look here!\"\nsaid George huskily. \"You going to keep this up all night? What do you\nmean by it?\"\n\nFor an instant she seemed confused. \"That's what cotillions are for,\naren't they?\" she murmured.\n\n\"What do you mean: what they're for?\"\n\n\"So that a girl can dance with a person she wants to?\"\n\nGeorge's huskiness increased. \"Well, do you mean you--you want to dance\nwith me all the time--all evening?\"\n\n\"Well, this much of it--evidently!\" she laughed.\n\n\"Is it because you thought I tried to keep you from getting hurt this\nafternoon when we upset?\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"Was it because you want to even things up for making me angry--I mean,\nfor hurting my feelings on the way home?\"\n\nWith her eyes averted--for girls of nineteen can be as shy as boys,\nsometimes--she said, \"Well--you only got angry because I couldn't dance\nthe cotillion with you. I--I didn't feel terribly hurt with you for\ngetting angry about that!\"\n\n\"Was there any other reason? Did my telling you I liked you have\nanything to do with it?\"\n\nShe looked up gently, and, as George met her eyes, something exquisitely\ntouching, yet queerly delightful, gave him a catch in the throat. She\nlooked instantly away, and, turning, ran out from the palm grove, where\nthey stood, to the dancing-floor.\n\n\"Come on!\" she cried. \"Let's dance!\"\n\nHe followed her.\n\n\"See here--I--I--\" he stammered. \"You mean--Do you--\"\n\n\"No, no!\" she laughed. \"Let's dance!\"\n\nHe put his arm about her almost tremulously, and they began to waltz. It\nwas a happy dance for both of them.\n\nChristmas day is the children's, but the holidays are youth's\ndancing-time. The holidays belong to the early twenties and the 'teens,\nhome from school and college. These years possess the holidays for a\nlittle while, then possess them only in smiling, wistful memories of\nholly and twinkling lights and dance-music, and charming faces\nall aglow. It is the liveliest time in life, the happiest of the\nirresponsible times in life. Mothers echo its happiness--nothing is like\na mother who has a son home from college, except another mother with a\nson home from college. Bloom does actually come upon these mothers; it\nis a visible thing; and they run like girls, walk like athletes, laugh\nlike sycophants. Yet they give up their sons to the daughters of other\nmothers, and find it proud rapture enough to be allowed to sit and\nwatch.\n\nThus Isabel watched George and Lucy dancing, as together they danced\naway the holidays of that year into the past.\n\n\"They seem to get along better than they did at first, those two\nchildren,\" Fanny Minafer said sitting beside her at the Sharons' dance,\na week after the Assembly. \"They seemed to be always having little\nquarrels of some sort, at first. At least George did: he seemed to be\ncontinually pecking at that lovely, dainty, little Lucy, and being cross\nwith her over nothing.\"\n\n\"Pecking?\" Isabel laughed. \"What a word to use about Georgie! I think I\nnever knew a more angelically amiable disposition in my life!\"\n\nMiss Fanny echoed her sister-in-law's laugh, but it was a rueful echo,\nand not sweet. \"He's amiable to you!\" she said. \"That's all the side of\nhim you ever happen to see. And why wouldn't he be amiable to anybody\nthat simply fell down and worshipped him every minute of her life? Most\nof us would!\"\n\n\"Isn't he worth worshipping? Just look at him! Isn't he charming with\nLucy! See how hard he ran to get it when she dropped her handkerchief\nback there.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not going to argue with you about George!\" said Miss Fanny.\n\"I'm fond enough of him, for that matter. He can be charming, and he's\ncertainly stunning looking, if only--\"\n\n\"Let the 'if only' go, dear,\" Isabel suggested good-naturedly. \"Let's\ntalk about that dinner you thought I should--\"\n\n\"I?\" Miss Fanny interrupted quickly. \"Didn't you want to give it\nyourself?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I did, my dear!\" said Isabel heartily. \"I only meant that\nunless you had proposed it, perhaps I wouldn't--\"\n\nBut here Eugene came for her to dance, and she left the sentence\nuncompleted. Holiday dances can be happy for youth renewed as well as\nfor youth in bud--and yet it was not with the air of a rival that Miss\nFanny watched her brother's wife dancing with the widower. Miss Fanny's\neyes narrowed a little, but only as if her mind engaged in a hopeful\ncalculation. She looked pleased.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X\n\n\n\nA few days after George's return to the university it became evident\nthat not quite everybody had gazed with complete benevolence upon the\nvarious young collegians at their holiday sports. The Sunday edition\nof the principal morning paper even expressed some bitterness under the\nheading, \"Gilded Youths of the Fin-de-Siecle\"--this was considered the\nknowing phrase of the time, especially for Sunday supplements--and there\nis no doubt that from certain references in this bit of writing some\npeople drew the conclusion that Mr. George Amberson Minafer had not yet\ngot his comeuppance, a postponement still irritating. Undeniably, Fanny\nMinafer was one of the people who drew this conclusion, for she cut the\narticle out and enclosed it in a letter to her nephew, having written on\nthe border of the clipping, \"I wonder whom it can mean!\"\n\nGeorge read part of it.\n\nWe debate sometimes what is to be the future of this nation when we\nthink that in a few years public affairs may be in the hands of the\nfin-de-siecle gilded youths we see about us during the Christmas\nholidays. Such foppery, such luxury, such insolence, was surely never\npractised by the scented, overbearing patricians of the Palatine, even\nin Rome's most decadent epoch. In all the wild orgy of wastefulness and\nluxury with which the nineteenth century reaches its close, the gilded\nyouth has been surely the worst symptom. With his airs of young milord,\nhis fast horses, his gold and silver cigarette-cases, his clothes from\na New York tailor, his recklessness of money showered upon him by\nindulgent mothers or doting grandfathers, he respects nothing and\nnobody. He is blase if you please. Watch him at a social function how\ncondescendingly he deigns to select a partner for the popular waltz or\ntwo step how carelessly he shoulders older people out of his way, with\nwhat a blank stare he returns the salutation of some old acquaintance\nwhom he may choose in his royal whim to forget! The unpleasant part\nof all this is that the young women he so condescendingly selects as\npartners for the dance greet him with seeming rapture, though in their\nhearts they must feel humiliated by his languid hauteur, and many older\npeople beam upon him almost fawningly if he unbends so far as to throw\nthem a careless, disdainful word!\n\nOne wonders what has come over the new generation. Of such as these the\nRepublic was not made. Let us pray that the future of our country is\nnot in the hands of these fin-de-siecle gilded youths, but rather in the\ncalloused palms of young men yet unknown, labouring upon the farms of\nthe land. When we compare the young manhood of Abraham Lincoln with the\nspecimens we are now producing, we see too well that it bodes ill for\nthe twentieth century--\n\nGeorge yawned, and tossed the clipping into his waste-basket, wondering\nwhy his aunt thought such dull nonsense worth the sending. As for her\ninsinuation, pencilled upon the border, he supposed she meant to joke--a\nsupposition which neither surprised him nor altered his lifelong opinion\nof her wit.\n\nHe read her letter with more interest:\n\nThe dinner your mother gave for the Morgans was a lovely affair. It was\nlast Monday evening, just ten days after you left. It was peculiarly\nappropriate that your mother should give this dinner, because her\nbrother George, your uncle, was Mr. Morgan's most intimate friend before\nhe left here a number of years ago, and it was a pleasant occasion for\nthe formal announcement of some news which you heard from Lucy Morgan\nbefore you returned to college. At least she told me she had told you\nthe night before you left that her father had decided to return here to\nlive. It was appropriate that your mother, herself an old friend, should\nassemble a representative selection of Mr. Morgan's old friends around\nhim at such a time. He was in great spirits and most entertaining.\nAs your time was so charmingly taken up during your visit home with a\nyounger member of his family, you probably overlooked opportunities of\nhearing him talk, and do not know what an interesting man he can be.\n\nHe will soon begin to build his factory here for the manufacture\nof automobiles, which he says is a term he prefers to \"horseless\ncarriages.\" Your Uncle George told me he would like to invest in this\nfactory, as George thinks there is a future for automobiles; perhaps\nnot for general use, but as an interesting novelty, which people with\nsufficient means would like to own for their amusement and the sake of\nvariety. However, he said Mr. Morgan laughingly declined his offer, as\nMr. M. was fully able to finance this venture, though not starting in\na very large way. Your uncle said other people are manufacturing\nautomobiles in different parts of the country with success. Your father\nis not very well, though he is not actually ill, and the doctor tells\nhim he ought not to be so much at his office, as the long years of\napplication indoors with no exercise are beginning to affect him\nunfavourably, but I believe your father would die if he had to give\nup his work, which is all that has ever interested him outside of his\nfamily. I never could understand it. Mr. Morgan took your mother and me\nwith Lucy to see Modjeska in \"Twelfth Night\" yesterday evening, and\nLucy said she thought the Duke looked rather like you, only much more\ndemocratic in his manner. I suppose you will think I have written a\ngreat deal about the Morgans in this letter, but thought you would be\ninterested because of your interest in a younger member of his family.\nHoping that you are finding college still as attractive as ever,\n\n             Affectionately,\n                        Aunt Fanny.\n\nGeorge read one sentence in this letter several times. Then he dropped\nthe missive in his wastebasket to join the clipping, and strolled down\nthe corridor of his dormitory to borrow a copy of \"Twelfth Night.\"\nHaving secured one, he returned to his study and refreshed his memory of\nthe play--but received no enlightenment that enabled him to comprehend\nLucy's strange remark. However, he found himself impelled in the\ndirection of correspondence, and presently wrote a letter--not a reply\nto his Aunt Fanny.\n\nDear Lucy: No doubt you will be surprised at hearing from me so soon\nagain, especially as this makes two in answer to the one received from\nyou since getting back to the old place. I hear you have been making\ncomments about me at the theatre, that some actor was more democratic in\nhis manners than I am, which I do not understand. You know my theory of\nlife because I explained it to you on our first drive together, when I\ntold you I would not talk to everybody about things I feel like the way\nI spoke to you of my theory of life. I believe those who are able should\nhave a true theory of life, and I developed my theory of life long, long\nago.\n\nWell, here I sit smoking my faithful briar pipe, indulging in the\nfragrance of my tobacco as I look out on the campus from my many-paned\nwindow, and things are different with me from the way they were way back\nin Freshman year. I can see now how boyish in many ways I was then. I\nbelieve what has changed me as much as anything was my visit home at the\ntime I met you. So I sit here with my faithful briar and dream the old\ndreams over as it were, dreaming of the waltzes we waltzed together and\nof that last night before we parted, and you told me the good news you\nwere going to live there, and I would find my friend waiting for me,\nwhen I get home next summer.\n\nI will be glad my friend will be waiting for me. I am not capable of\nfriendship except for the very few, and, looking back over my life,\nI remember there were times when I doubted if I could feel a great\nfriendship for anybody--especially girls. I do not take a great interest\nin many people, as you know, for I find most of them shallow. Here in\nthe old place I do not believe in being hail-fellow-well-met with every\nTom, Dick, and Harry just because he happens to be a classmate, any more\nthan I do at home, where I have always been careful who I was seen with,\nlargely on account of the family, but also because my disposition ever\nsince my boyhood has been to encourage real intimacy from but the few.\n\nWhat are you reading now? I have finished both \"Henry Esmond\" and \"The\nVirginians.\" I like Thackeray because he is not trashy, and because he\nwrites principally of nice people. My theory of literature is an author\nwho does not indulge in trashiness--writes about people you could\nintroduce into your own home. I agree with my Uncle Sydney, as I once\nheard him say he did not care to read a book or go to a play about\npeople he would not care to meet at his own dinner table. I believe we\nshould live by certain standards and ideals, as you know from my telling\nyou my theory of life.\n\nWell, a letter is no place for deep discussions, so I will not go into\nthe subject. From several letters from my mother, and one from Aunt\nFanny, I hear you are seeing a good deal of the family since I left.\nI hope sometimes you think of the member who is absent. I got a silver\nframe for your photograph in New York, and I keep it on my desk. It\nis the only girl's photograph I ever took the trouble to have framed,\nthough, as I told you frankly, I have had any number of other girls'\nphotographs, yet all were only passing fancies, and oftentimes I have\nquestioned in years past if I was capable of much friendship toward the\nfeminine sex, which I usually found shallow until our own friendship\nbegan. When I look at your photograph, I say to myself, \"At last, at\nlast here is one that will not prove shallow.\"\n\nMy faithful briar has gone out. I will have to rise and fill it, then\nonce more in the fragrance of My Lady Nicotine, I will sit and dream the\nold dreams over, and think, too, of the true friend at home awaiting my\nreturn in June for the summer vacation.\n\n             Friend, this is from your friend,\n                                            G.A.M.\n\n\nGeorge's anticipations were not disappointed. When he came home in June\nhis friend was awaiting him; at least, she was so pleased to see him\nagain that for a few minutes after their first encounter she was a\nlittle breathless, and a great deal glowing, and quiet withal. Their\nsentimental friendship continued, though sometimes he was irritated by\nher making it less sentimental than he did, and sometimes by what he\ncalled her \"air of superiority.\" Her air was usually, in truth, that\nof a fond but amused older sister; and George did not believe such an\nattitude was warranted by her eight months of seniority.\n\nLucy and her father were living at the Amberson Hotel, while Morgan got\nhis small machine-shops built in a western outskirt of the town; and\nGeorge grumbled about the shabbiness and the old-fashioned look of\nthe hotel, though it was \"still the best in the place, of course.\" He\nremonstrated with his grandfather, declaring that the whole Amberson\nEstate would be getting \"run-down and out-at-heel, if things weren't\ntaken in hand pretty soon.\" He urged the general need of rebuilding,\nrenovating, varnishing, and lawsuits. But the Major, declining to hear\nhim out, interrupted querulously, saying that he had enough to bother\nhim without any advice from George; and retired to his library, going so\nfar as to lock the door audibly.\n\n\"Second childhood!\" George muttered, shaking his head; and he thought\nsadly that the Major had not long to live. However, this surmise\ndepressed him for only a moment or so. Of course, people couldn't be\nexpected to live forever, and it would be a good thing to have someone\nin charge of the Estate who wouldn't let it get to looking so rusty that\nriffraff dared to make fun of it. For George had lately undergone the\nannoyance of calling upon the Morgans, in the rather stuffy red velours\nand gilt parlour of their apartment at the hotel, one evening when Mr.\nFrederick Kinney also was a caller, and Mr. Kinney had not been tactful.\nIn fact, though he adopted a humorous tone of voice, in expressing his,\nsympathy for people who, through the city's poverty in hotels, were\nobliged to stay at the Amberson, Mr. Kinney's intention was interpreted\nby the other visitor as not at all humorous, but, on the contrary,\npersonal and offensive.\n\nGeorge rose abruptly, his face the colour of wrath. \"Good-night, Miss\nMorgan. Good-night, Mr. Morgan,\" he said. \"I shall take pleasure in\ncalling at some other time when a more courteous sort of people may be\npresent.\"\n\n\"Look here!\" the hot-headed Fred burst out. \"Don't you try to make me\nout a boor, George Minafer! I wasn't hinting anything at you; I simply\nforgot all about your grandfather owning this old building. Don't you\ntry to put me in the light of a boor! I won't--\"\n\nBut George walked out in the very course of this vehement protest, and\nit was necessarily left unfinished.\n\nMr. Kinney remained only a few moments after George's departure; and as\nthe door closed upon him, the distressed Lucy turned to her father.\nShe was plaintively surprised to find him in a condition of immoderate\nlaughter.\n\n\"I didn't--I didn't think I could hold out!\" he gasped, and, after\nchoking until tears came to his eyes, felt blindly for the chair from\nwhich he had risen to wish Mr. Kinney an indistinct good-night. His\nhand found the arm of the chair; he collapsed feebly, and sat uttering\nincoherent sounds.\n\n\"Papa!\"\n\n\"It brings things back so!\" he managed to explain, \"This very Fred\nKinney's father and young George's father, Wilbur Minafer, used to do\njust such things when they were at that age--and, for that matter, so\ndid George Amberson and I, and all the rest of us!\" And, in spite of his\nexhaustion, he began to imitate: \"Don't you try to put me in the light\nof a boor!\" \"I shall take pleasure in calling at some time when a more\ncourteous sort of people--\" He was unable to go on.\n\nThere is a mirth for every age, and Lucy failed to comprehend her\nfather's, but tolerated it a little ruefully.\n\n\"Papa, I think they were shocking. Weren't they awful!\"\n\n\"Just--just boys!\" he moaned, wiping his eyes. But Lucy could not smile\nat all; she was beginning to look indignant. \"I can forgive that poor\nFred Kinney,\" she said. \"He's just blundering--but George--oh, George\nbehaved outrageously!\"\n\n\"It's a difficult age,\" her father observed, his calmness somewhat\nrestored. \"Girls don't seem to have to pass through it quite as boys do,\nor their savoir faire is instinctive--or something!\" And he gave away to\na return of his convulsion.\n\nShe came and sat upon the arm of his chair. \"Papa, why should George\nbehave like that?\"\n\n\"He's sensitive.\"\n\n\"Rather! But why is he? He does anything he likes to, without any regard\nfor what people think. Then why should he mind so furiously when\nthe least little thing reflects upon him, or on anything or anybody\nconnected with him?\"\n\nEugene patted her hand. \"That's one of the greatest puzzles of human\nvanity, dear; and I don't pretend to know the answer. In all my life,\nthe most arrogant people that I've known have been the most sensitive.\nThe people who have done the most in contempt of other people's opinion,\nand who consider themselves the highest above it, have been the most\nfurious if it went against them. Arrogant and domineering people can't\nstand the least, lightest, faintest breath of criticism. It just kills\nthem.\"\n\n\"Papa, do you think George is arrogant and domineering?\"\n\n\"Oh, he's still only a boy,\" said Eugene consolingly. \"There's plenty\nof fine stuff in him--can't help but be, because he's Isabel Amberson's\nson.\"\n\nLucy stroked his hair, which was still almost as dark as her own. \"You\nliked her pretty well once, I guess, papa.\"\n\n\"I do still,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"She's lovely--lovely! Papa--\" she paused, then continued--\"I wonder\nsometimes--\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I wonder just how she happened to marry Mr. Minafer.\"\n\n\"Oh, Minafer's all right,\" said Eugene. \"He's a quiet sort of man, but\nhe's a good man and a kind man. He always was, and those things count.\"\n\n\"But in a way--well, I've heard people say there wasn't anything to him\nat all except business and saving money. Miss Fanny Minafer herself told\nme that everything George and his mother have of their own--that is,\njust to spend as they like--she says it has always come from Major\nAmberson.\"\n\n\"Thrift, Horatio!\" said Eugene lightly. \"Thrift's an inheritance, and a\ncommon enough one here. The people who settled the country had to save,\nso making and saving were taught as virtues, and the people, to the\nthird generation, haven't found out that making and saving are only\nmeans to an end. Minafer doesn't believe in money being spent. He\nbelieves God made it to be invested and saved.\"\n\n\"But George isn't saving. He's reckless, and even if he is arrogant and\nconceited and bad-tempered, he's awfully generous.\"\n\n\"Oh, he's an Amberson,\" said her father. \"The Ambersons aren't saving.\nThey're too much the other way, most of them.\"\n\n\"I don't think I should have called George bad-tempered,\" Lucy said\nthoughtfully. \"No. I don't think he is.\"\n\n\"Only when he's cross about something?\" Morgan suggested, with a\nsemblance of sympathetic gravity.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said brightly, not perceiving that his intention was\nhumorous. \"All the rest of the time he's really very amiable. Of course,\nhe's much more a perfect child, the whole time, than he realizes! He\ncertainly behaved awfully to-night.\" She jumped up, her indignation\nreturning. \"He did, indeed, and it won't do to encourage him in it. I\nthink he'll find me pretty cool--for a week or so!\"\n\nWhereupon her father suffered a renewal of his attack of uproarious\nlaughter.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI\n\n\n\nIn the matter of coolness, George met Lucy upon her own predetermined\nground; in fact, he was there first, and, at their next encounter,\nproved loftier and more formal than she did. Their estrangement lasted\nthree weeks, and then disappeared without any preliminary treaty: it had\nworn itself out, and they forgot it.\n\nAt times, however, George found other disturbances to the friendship.\nLucy was \"too much the village belle,\" he complained; and took a satiric\nattitude toward his competitors, referring to them as her \"local swains\nand bumpkins,\" sulking for an afternoon when she reminded him that he,\ntoo, was at least \"local.\" She was a belle with older people as well;\nIsabel and Fanny were continually taking her driving, bringing her home\nwith them to lunch or dinner, and making a hundred little engagements\nwith her, and the Major had taken a great fancy to her, insisting upon\nher presence and her father's at the Amberson family dinner at the\nMansion every Sunday evening. She knew how to flirt with old people, he\nsaid, as she sat next him at the table on one of these Sunday occasions;\nand he had always liked her father, even when Eugene was a \"terror\" long\nago. \"Oh, yes, he was!\" the Major laughed, when she remonstrated. \"He\ncame up here with my son George and some others for a serenade one\nnight, and Eugene stepped into a bass fiddle, and the poor musicians\njust gave up! I had a pretty half-hour getting my son George upstairs.\nI remember! It was the last time Eugene ever touched a drop--but he'd\ntouched plenty before that, young lady, and he daren't deny it! Well,\nwell; there's another thing that's changed: hardly anybody drinks\nnowadays. Perhaps it's just as well, but things used to be livelier.\nThat serenade was just before Isabel was married--and don't you fret,\nMiss Lucy: your father remembers it well enough!\" The old gentleman\nburst into laughter, and shook his finger at Eugene across the table.\n\"The fact is,\" the Major went on hilariously, \"I believe if Eugene\nhadn't broken that bass fiddle and given himself away, Isabel would\nnever have taken Wilbur! I shouldn't be surprised if that was about all\nthe reason that Wilbur got her! What do you think. Wilbur?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't be surprised,\" said Wilbur placidly. \"If your notion is\nright, I'm glad 'Gene broke the fiddle. He was giving me a hard run!\"\n\nThe Major always drank three glasses of champagne at his Sunday dinner,\nand he was finishing the third. \"What do you say about it, Isabel? By\nJove!\" he cried, pounding the table. \"She's blushing!\"\n\nIsabel did blush, but she laughed. \"Who wouldn't blush!\" she cried, and\nher sister-in-law came to her assistance.\n\n\"The important thing,\" said Fanny jovially, \"is that Wilbur did get her,\nand not only got her, but kept her!\"\n\nEugene was as pink as Isabel, but he laughed without any sign of\nembarrassment other than his heightened colour. \"There's another\nimportant thing--that is, for me,\" he said. \"It's the only thing that\nmakes me forgive that bass viol for getting in my way.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" the Major asked.\n\n\"Lucy,\" said Morgan gently.\n\nIsabel gave him a quick glance, all warm approval, and there was a\nmurmur of friendliness round the table.\n\nGeorge was not one of those who joined in this applause. He considered\nhis grandfather's nonsense indelicate, even for second childhood, and he\nthought that the sooner the subject was dropped the better. However, he\nhad only a slight recurrence of the resentment which had assailed him\nduring the winter at every sign of his mother's interest in Morgan;\nthough he was still ashamed of his aunt sometimes, when it seemed to him\nthat Fanny was almost publicly throwing herself at the widower's head.\nFanny and he had one or two arguments in which her fierceness again\nastonished and amused him.\n\n\"You drop your criticisms of your relatives,\" she bade him, hotly, one\nday, \"and begin thinking a little about your own behaviour! You say\npeople will 'talk' about my--about my merely being pleasant to an old\nfriend! What do I care how they talk? I guess if people are talking\nabout anybody in this family they're talking about the impertinent\nlittle snippet that hasn't any respect for anything, and doesn't even\nknow enough to attend to his own affairs!\"\n\n\"Snippet,' Aunt Fanny!\" George laughed. \"How elegant! And 'little\nsnippet'--when I'm over five-feet-eleven?\"\n\n\"I said it!\" she snapped, departing. \"I don't see how Lucy can stand\nyou!\"\n\n\"You'd make an amiable stepmother-in-law!\" he called after her. \"I'll be\ncareful about proposing to Lucy!\"\n\nThese were but roughish spots in a summer that glided by evenly and\nquickly enough, for the most part, and, at the end, seemed to fly. On\nthe last night before George went back to be a Junior, his mother asked\nhim confidently if it had not been a happy summer.\n\nHe hadn't thought about it, he answered. \"Oh,' I suppose so. Why?\"\n\n\"I just thought it would be: nice to hear you say so,\" she said,\nsmiling. \"I mean, it's pleasant for people of my age to know that people\nof your age realize that they're happy.\"\n\n\"People of your age!\" he repeated. \"You know you don't look precisely\nlike an old woman, mother. Not precisely!\"\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"And I suppose I feel about as young as you do, inside,\nbut it won't be many years before I must begin to look old. It does\ncome!\" She sighed, still smiling. \"It's seemed to me that, it must have\nbeen a happy summer for you--a real 'summer of roses and wine'--without\nthe wine, perhaps. 'Gather ye roses while ye may'--or was it primroses?\nTime does really fly, or perhaps it's more like the sky--and smoke--\"\n\nGeorge was puzzled. \"What do you mean: time being like the sky and\nsmoke?\"\n\n\"I mean the things that we have and that we think are so solid--they're\nlike smoke, and time is like the sky that the smoke disappears into. You\nknow how wreath of smoke goes up from a chimney, and seems all thick and\nblack and busy against the sky, as if it were going to do such important\nthings and last forever, and you see it getting thinner and thinner--and\nthen, in such a little while, it isn't there at all; nothing is left but\nthe sky, and the sky keeps on being just the same forever.\"\n\n\"It strikes me you're getting mixed up,\" said George cheerfully. \"I\ndon't see much resemblance between time and the sky, or between things\nand smoke-wreaths; but I do see one reason you like 'Lucy Morgan so\nmuch. She talks that same kind of wistful, moony way sometimes--I don't\nmean to say I mind it in either of you, because I rather like to listen\nto it, and you've got a very good voice, mother. It's nice to listen to,\nno matter how much smoke and sky, and so on, you talk. So's Lucy's for\nthat matter; and I see why you're congenial. She talks that way to her\nfather, too; and he's right there with the same kind of guff. Well, it's\nall right with me!\" He laughed, teasingly, and allowed her to retain his\nhand, which she had fondly seized. \"I've got plenty to think about when\npeople drool along!\"\n\nShe pressed his hand to her cheek, and a tear made a tiny warm streak\nacross one of his knuckles.\n\n\"For heaven's sake!\" he said. \"What's the matter? Isn't everything all\nright?\"\n\n\"You're going away!\"\n\n\"Well, I'm coming back, don't you suppose? Is that all that worries\nyou?\"\n\nShe cheered up, and smiled again, but shook her head. \"I never can bear\nto see you go--that's the most of it. I'm a little bothered about your\nfather, too.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"It seems to me he looks so badly. Everybody thinks so.\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\" George laughed. \"He's been looking that way all summer.\nHe isn't much different from the way he's looked all his life, that I\ncan see. What's the matter with him?\"\n\n\"He never talks much about his business to me but I think he's been\nworrying about some investments he made last year. I think his worry has\naffected his health.\"\n\n\"What investments?\" George demanded. \"He hasn't gone into Mr. Morgan's\nautomobile concern, has he?\"\n\n\"No,\" Isabel smiled. \"The 'automobile concern' is all Eugene's, and it's\nso small I understand it's taken hardly anything. No; your father\nhas always prided himself on making only the most absolutely safe\ninvestments, but two or three years ago he and your Uncle George both\nput a great deal--pretty much everything they could get together, I\nthink--into the stock of rolling-mills some friends of theirs owned, and\nI'm afraid the mills haven't been doing well.\"\n\n\"What of that? Father needn't worry. You and I could take care of him\nthe rest of his life on what grandfather--\"\n\n\"Of course,\" she agreed. \"But your father's always lived so for his\nbusiness and taken such pride in his sound investments; it's a passion\nwith him. I--\"\n\n\"Pshaw! He needn't worry! You tell him we'll look after him: we'll build\nhim a little stone bank in the backyard, if he busts up, and he can go\nand put his pennies in it every morning. That'll keep him just as happy\nas he ever was!\" He kissed her. \"Good-night, I'm going to tell Lucy\ngood-bye. Don't sit up for me.\"\n\nShe walked to the front gate with him, still holding his hand, and he\ntold her again not to \"sit up\" for him.\n\n\"Yes, I will,\" she laughed. \"You won't be very late.\"\n\n\"Well--it's my last night.\"\n\n\"But I know Lucy, and she knows I want to see you, too, your last night.\nYou'll see: she'll send you home promptly at eleven!\"\n\nBut she was mistaken: Lucy sent him home promptly at ten.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII\n\n\n\nIsabels uneasiness about her husbands health--sometimes reflected in\nher letters to George during the winter that followed--had not been\nalleviated when the accredited Senior returned for his next summer\nvacation, and she confided to him in his room, soon after his arrival,\nthat \"something\" the doctor had said to her lately had made her more\nuneasy than ever.\n\n\"Still worrying over his rolling-mills investments?\" George asked, not\nseriously impressed.\n\n\"I'm afraid it's past that stage from what Dr Rainey says. His worries\nonly aggravate his condition now. Dr. Rainey says we ought to get him\naway.\"\n\n\"Well, let's do it, then.\"\n\n\"He won't go.\"\n\n\"He's a man awfully set in his ways; that's true,\" said George. \"I don't\nthink there's anything much the matter with him, though, and he looks\njust the same to me. Have you seen Lucy lately? How is she?\"\n\n\"Hasn't she written you?\"\n\n\"Oh, about once a month,\" he answered carelessly. \"Never says much about\nherself. How's she look?\"\n\n\"She looks--pretty!\" said Isabel. \"I suppose she wrote you they've\nmoved?\"\n\n\"Yes; I've got her address. She said they were building.\"\n\n\"They did. It's all finished, and they've been in it a month. Lucy is so\ncapable; she keeps house exquisitely. It's small, but oh, such a pretty\nlittle house!\"\n\n\"Well, that's fortunate,\" George said. \"One thing I've always felt they\ndidn't know a great deal about is architecture.\"\n\n\"Don't they?\" asked Isabel, surprised. \"Anyhow, their house is charming.\nIt's way out beyond the end of Amberson Boulevard; it's quite near that\nbig white house with a gray-green roof somebody built out there a year\nor so ago. There are any number of houses going up, out that way; and\nthe trolley-line runs within a block of them now, on the next street,\nand the traction people are laying tracks more than three miles beyond.\nI suppose you'll be driving out to see Lucy to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I thought--\" George hesitated. \"I thought perhaps I'd go after dinner\nthis evening.\"\n\nAt this his mother laughed, not astonished. \"It was only my feeble joke\nabout 'to-morrow,' Georgie! I was pretty sure you couldn't wait that\nlong. Did Lucy write you about the factory?\"\n\n\"No. What factory?\"\n\n\"The automobile shops. They had rather a dubious time at first, I'm\nafraid, and some of Eugene's experiments turned out badly, but this\nspring they've finished eight automobiles and sold them all, and they've\ngot twelve more almost finished, and they're sold already! Eugene's so\ngay over it!\"\n\n\"What do his old sewing-machines look like? Like that first one he had\nwhen they came here?\"\n\n\"No, indeed! These have rubber tires blown up with air--pneumatic! And\nthey aren't so high; they're very easy to get into, and the engine's\nin front--Eugene thinks that's a great improvement. They're very\ninteresting to look at; behind the driver's seat there's a sort of box\nwhere four people can sit, with a step and a little door in the rear,\nand--\"\n\n\"I know all about it,\" said George. \"I've seen any number like that,\nEast. You can see all you want of 'em, if you stand on Fifth Avenue half\nan hour, any afternoon. I've seen half-a-dozen go by almost at the same\ntime--within a few minutes, anyhow; and of course electric hansoms are\na common sight there any day. I hired one, myself, the last time I was\nthere. How fast do Mr. Morgan's machines go?\"\n\n\"Much too fast! It's very exhilarating--but rather frightening; and they\ndo make a fearful uproar. He says, though, he thinks he sees a way to\nget around the noisiness in time.\"\n\n\"I don't mind the noise,\" said George. \"Give me a horse, for mine,\nthough, any day. I must get up a race with one of these things:\nPendennis'll leave it one mile behind in a two-mile run. How's\ngrandfather?\"\n\n\"He looks well, but he complains sometimes of his heart: I suppose\nthat's natural at his age--and it's an Amberson trouble.\" Having\nmentioned this, she looked anxious instantly. \"Did you ever feel any\nweakness there, Georgie?\"\n\n\"No!\" he laughed.\n\n\"Are you sure, dear?\"\n\n\"No!\" And he laughed again. \"Did you?\"\n\n\"Oh, I think not--at least, the doctor told me he thought my heart was\nabout all right. He said I needn't be alarmed.\"\n\n\"I should think not! Women do seem to be always talking about health: I\nsuppose they haven't got enough else to think of!\"\n\n\"That must be it,\" she said gayly. \"We're an idle lot!\"\n\nGeorge had taken off his coat. \"I don't like to hint to a lady,\" he\nsaid, \"but I do want to dress before dinner.\"\n\n\"Don't be long; I've got to do a lot of looking at you, dear!\" She\nkissed him and ran away singing.\n\nBut his Aunt Fanny was not so fond; and at the dinner-table there came\na spark of liveliness into her eye when George patronizingly asked her\nwhat was the news in her own \"particular line of sport.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Georgie?\" she asked quietly.\n\n\"Oh I mean: What's the news in the fast set generally? You been causing\nany divorces lately?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Fanny, the spark in her eye getting brighter. \"I haven't been\ncausing anything.\"\n\n\"Well, what's the gossip? You usually hear pretty much everything that\ngoes on around the nooks and crannies in this town, I hear. What's the\nlast from the gossips' corner, auntie?\"\n\nFanny dropped her eyes, and the spark was concealed, but a movement\nof her lower lip betokened a tendency to laugh, as she replied. \"There\nhasn't been much gossip lately, except the report that Lucy Morgan and\nFred Kinney are engaged--and that's quite old, by this time.\"\n\nUndeniably, this bit of mischief was entirely successful, for there was\na clatter upon George's plate. \"What--what do you think you're talking\nabout?\" he gasped.\n\nMiss Fanny looked up innocently. \"About the report of Lucy Morgan's\nengagement to Fred Kinney.\"\n\nGeorge turned dumbly to his mother, and Isabel shook her head\nreassuringly. \"People are always starting rumours,\" she said. \"I haven't\npaid any attention to this one.\"\n\n\"But you--you've heard it?\" he stammered.\n\n\"Oh, one hears all sorts of nonsense, dear. I haven't the slightest idea\nthat it's true.\"\n\n\"Then you have heard it!\"\n\n\"I wouldn't let it take my appetite,\" his father suggested drily. \"There\nare plenty of girls in the world!\"\n\nGeorge turned pale.\n\n\"Eat your dinner, Georgie,\" his aunt said sweetly. \"Food will do you\ngood. I didn't say I knew this rumour was true. I only said I'd heard\nit.\"\n\n\"When? When did you hear it!\"\n\n\"Oh, months ago!\" And Fanny found any further postponement of laughter\nimpossible.\n\n\"Fanny, you're a hard-hearted creature,\" Isabel said gently. \"You really\nare. Don't pay any attention to her, George. Fred Kinney's only a clerk\nin his uncle's hardware place: he couldn't marry for ages--even if\nanybody would accept him!\"\n\nGeorge breathed tumultuously. \"I don't care anything about 'ages'!\nWhat's that got to do with it?\" he said, his thoughts appearing to\nbe somewhat disconnected. \"Ages,' don't mean anything! I only want to\nknow--I want to know--I want--\" He stopped.\n\n\"What do you want?\" his father asked crossly.\n\n\"Why don't you say it? Don't make such a fuss.\"\n\n\"I'm not--not at all,\" George declared, pushing his chair back from the\ntable.\n\n\"You must finish your dinner, dear,\" his mother urged. \"Don't--\"\n\n\"I have finished. I've eaten all I want. I don't want any more than\nI wanted. I don't want--I--\" He rose, still incoherent. \"I prefer--I\nwant--Please excuse me!\"\n\nHe left the room, and a moment later the screens outside the open front\ndoor were heard to slam:\n\n\"Fanny! You shouldn't--\"\n\n\"Isabel, don't reproach me, he did have plenty of dinner, and I only\ntold the truth: everybody has been saying--\"\n\n\"But there isn't any truth in it.\"\n\n\"We don't actually know there isn't,\" Miss Fanny insisted, giggling.\n\"We've never asked Lucy.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't ask her anything so absurd!\"\n\n\"George would,\" George's father remarked. \"That's what he's gone to do.\"\n\nMr. Minafer was not mistaken: that was what his son had gone to do. Lucy\nand her father were just rising from their dinner table when the stirred\nyouth arrived at the front door of the new house. It was a cottage,\nhowever, rather than a house; and Lucy had taken a free hand with the\narchitect, achieving results in white and green, outside, and white and\nblue, inside, to such effect of youth and daintiness that her father\ncomplained of \"too much spring-time!\" The whole place, including his own\nbedroom, was a young damsel's boudoir, he said, so that nowhere could\nhe smoke a cigar without feeling like a ruffian. However, he was\nsmoking when George arrived, and he encouraged George to join him in\nthe pastime, but the caller, whose air was both tense and preoccupied,\ndeclined with something like agitation.\n\n\"I never smoke--that is, I'm seldom--I mean, no thanks,\" he said. \"I\nmean not at all. I'd rather not.\"\n\n\"Aren't you well, George?\" Eugene asked, looking at him in perplexity.\n\"Have you been overworking at college? You do look rather pa--\"\n\n\"I don't work,\" said George. \"I mean I don't work. I think, but I don't\nwork. I only work at the end of the term. There isn't much to do.\"\n\nEugene's perplexity was little decreased, and a tinkle of the door-bell\nafforded him obvious relief. \"It's my foreman,\" he said, looking at his\nwatch. \"I'll take him out in the yard to talk. This is no place for a\nforeman.\" And he departed, leaving the \"living room\" to Lucy and George.\nIt was a pretty room, white panelled and blue curtained--and no place\nfor a foreman, as Eugene said. There was a grand piano, and Lucy stood\nleaning back against it, looking intently at George, while her fingers,\nbehind her, absently struck a chord or two. And her dress was the dress\nfor that room, being of blue and white, too; and the high colour in\nher cheeks was far from interfering with the general harmony of\nthings--George saw with dismay that she was prettier than ever, and\nnaturally he missed the reassurance he might have felt had he been able\nto guess that Lucy, on her part, was finding him better looking than\never. For, however unusual the scope of George's pride, vanity of beauty\nwas not included; he did not think about his looks.\n\n\"What's wrong, George?\" she asked softly.\n\n\"What do you mean: 'What's wrong?\"\n\n\"You're awfully upset about something. Didn't you get though your\nexamination all right?\"\n\n\"Certainly I did. What makes you think anything's 'wrong' with me?\"\n\n\"You do look pale, as papa said, and it seemed to me that the way you\ntalked sounded--well, a little confused.\"\n\n\"Confused'! I said I didn't care to smoke. What in the world is confused\nabout that?\"\n\n\"Nothing. But--\"\n\n\"See here!\" George stepped close to her. \"Are you glad to see me?\"\n\n\"You needn't be so fierce about it!\" Lucy protested, laughing at his\ndramatic intensity. \"Of course I am! How long have I been looking\nforward to it?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said sharply, abating nothing of his fierceness. \"How\nlong have you?\"\n\n\"Why--ever since you went away!\"\n\n\"Is that true? Lucy, is that true?\"\n\n\"You are funny!\" she said. \"Of course it's true. Do tell me what's the\nmatter with you, George!\"\n\n\"I will!\" he exclaimed. \"I was a boy when I saw you last. I see that\nnow, though I didn't then. Well, I'm not a boy any longer. I'm a man,\nand a man has a right to demand a totally different treatment.\"\n\n\"Why has he?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I don't seem to be able to understand you at all, George. Why shouldn't\na boy be treated just as well as a man?\"\n\nGeorge seemed to find himself at a loss. \"Why shouldn't--Well, he\nshouldn't, because a man has a right to certain explanations.\"\n\n\"What explanations?\"\n\n\"Whether he's been made a toy of!\" George almost shouted. \"That's what I\nwant to know!\"\n\nLucy shook her head despairingly. \"You are the queerest person! You say\nyou're a man now, but you talk more like a boy than ever. What does make\nyou so excited?\"\n\n\"'Excited!'\" he stormed. \"Do you dare to stand there and call me\n'excited'? I tell you, I never have been more calm or calmer in my\nlife! I don't know that a person needs to be called 'excited' because he\ndemands explanations that are his simple due!\"\n\n\"What in the world do you want me to explain?\"\n\n\"Your conduct with Fred Kinney!\" George shouted.\n\nLucy uttered a sudden cry of laughter; she was delighted. \"It's been\nawful!\" she said. \"I don't know that I ever heard of worse misbehaviour!\nPapa and I have been twice to dinner with his family, and I've been\nthree times to church with Fred--and once to the circus! I don't know\nwhen they'll be here to arrest me!\"\n\n\"Stop that!\" George commanded fiercely. \"I want to know just one thing,\nand I mean to know it, too!\"\n\n\"Whether I enjoyed the circus?\"\n\n\"I want to know if you're engaged to him!\"\n\n\"No!\" she cried and lifting her face close to his for the shortest\ninstant possible, she gave him a look half merry, half defiant, but all\nfond. It was an adorable look.\n\n\"Lucy!\" he said huskily.\n\nBut she turned quickly from him, and ran to the other end of the room.\nHe followed awkwardly, stammering:\n\n\"Lucy, I want--I want to ask you. Will you--will you--will you be\nengaged to me?\"\n\nShe stood at a window, seeming to look out into the summer darkness, her\nback to him.\n\n\"Will you, Lucy?\"\n\n\"No,\" she murmured, just audibly.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I'm older than you.\"\n\n\"Eight months!\"\n\n\"You're too young.\"\n\n\"Is that--\" he said, gulping--\"is that the only reason you won't?\"\n\nShe did not answer.\n\nAs she stood, persistently staring out of the window, with her back to\nhim, she did not see how humble his attitude had become; but his voice\nwas low, and it shook so that she could have no doubt of his emotion.\n\"Lucy, please forgive me for making such a row,\" he said, thus gently.\n\"I've been--I've been terribly upset--terribly! You know how I feel\nabout you, and always have felt about you. I've shown it in every single\nthing I've done since the first time I met you, and I know you know it.\nDon't you?\"\n\nStill she did not move or speak.\n\n\"Is the only reason you won't be engaged to me you think I'm too young,\nLucy?\"\n\n\"It's--it's reason enough,\" she said faintly.\n\nAt that he caught one of her hands, and she turned to him: there were\ntears in her eyes, tears which he did not understand at all.\n\n\"Lucy, you little dear!\" he cried. \"I knew you--\"\n\n\"No, no!\" she said, and she pushed him away, withdrawing her hand.\n\"George, let's not talk of solemn things.\"\n\n\"Solemn things!' Like what?\"\n\n\"Like--being engaged.\"\n\nBut George had become altogether jubilant, and he laughed triumphantly.\n\"Good gracious, that isn't solemn!\"\n\n\"It is, too!\" she said, wiping her eyes. \"It's too solemn for us.\"\n\n\"No, it isn't! I--\"\n\n\"Let's sit down and be sensible, dear,\" she said. \"You sit over there--\"\n\n\"I will if you'll call me, 'dear' again.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"I'll only call you that once again this summer--the\nnight before you go away.\"\n\n\"That will have to do, then,\" he laughed, \"so long as I know we're\nengaged.\"\n\n\"But we're not!\" she protested. \"And we never will be, if you don't\npromise not to speak of it again until--until I tell you to!\"\n\n\"I won't promise that,\" said the happy George. \"I'll only promise not to\nspeak of it till the next time you call me 'dear'; and you've promised\nto call me that the night before I leave for my senior year.\"\n\n\"Oh, but I didn't!\" she said earnestly, then hesitated. \"Did I?\"\n\n\"Didn't you?\"\n\n\"I don't think I meant it,\" she murmured, her wet lashes flickering\nabove troubled eyes.\n\n\"I know one thing about you,\" he said gayly, his triumph increasing.\n\"You never went back on anything you said, yet, and I'm not afraid of\nthis being the first time!\"\n\n\"But we mustn't let--\" she faltered; then went on tremulously, \"George,\nwe've got on so well together, we won't let this make a difference\nbetween us, will we?\" And she joined in his laughter.\n\n\"It will all depend on what you tell me the night before I go away. You\nagree we're going to settle things then, don't you, Lucy?\"\n\n\"I don't promise.\"\n\n\"Yes, you do! Don't you?\"\n\n\"Well--\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII\n\n\n\nTonight George began a jubilant warfare upon his Aunt Fanny, opening\nthe campaign upon his return home at about eleven o'clock. Fanny had\nretired, and was presumably asleep, but George, on the way to his own\nroom, paused before her door, and serenaded her in a full baritone:\n\n    \"As I walk along the Boy de Balong\n     With my independent air,\n     The people all declare,\n     'He must be a millionaire!'\n     Oh, you hear them sigh, and wish to die,\n     And see them wink the other eye.\n     At the man that broke the bank at Monte Carlo!\"\n\nIsabel came from George's room, where she had been reading, waiting for\nhim. \"I'm afraid you'll disturb your father, dear. I wish you'd sing\nmore, though--in the daytime! You have a splendid voice.\"\n\n\"Good-night, old lady!\"\n\n\"I thought perhaps I--Didn't you want me to come in with you and talk a\nlittle?\"\n\n\"Not to-night. You go to bed. Good-night, old lady!\"\n\nHe kissed her hilariously, entered his room with a skip, closed his door\nnoisily; and then he could be heard tossing things about, loudly humming\n\"The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.\"\n\nSmiling, his mother knelt outside his door to pray; then, with her\n\"Amen,\" pressed her lips to the bronze door-knob; and went silently to\nher own apartment.\n\nAfter breakfasting in bed, George spent the next morning at his\ngrandfather's and did not encounter his Aunt Fanny until lunch, when she\nseemed to be ready for him.\n\n\"Thank you so much for the serenade, George!\" she said. \"Your poor\nfather tells me he'd just got to sleep for the first time in two nights,\nbut after your kind attentions he lay awake the rest of last night.\"\n\n\"Perfectly true,\" Mr. Minafer said grimly.\n\n\"Of course, I didn't know, sir,\" George hastened to assure him. \"I'm\nawfully sorry. But Aunt Fanny was so gloomy and excited before I went\nout, last evening, I thought she needed cheering up.\"\n\n\"I!\" Fanny jeered. \"I was gloomy? I was excited? You mean about that\nengagement?\"\n\n\"Yes. Weren't you? I thought I heard you worrying over somebody's being\nengaged. Didn't I hear you say you'd heard Mr. Eugene Morgan was engaged\nto marry some pretty little seventeen-year-old girl?\"\n\nFanny was stung, but she made a brave effort. \"Did you ask Lucy?\" she\nsaid, her voice almost refusing the teasing laugh she tried to make it\nutter. \"Did you ask her when Fred Kinney and she--\"\n\n\"Yes. That story wasn't true. But the other one--\" Here he stared at\nFanny, and then affected dismay. \"Why, what's the matter with your face,\nAunt Fanny? It seems agitated!\"\n\n\"Agitated!\" Fanny said disdainfully, but her voice undeniably lacked\nsteadiness. \"Agitated!\"\n\n\"Oh, come!\" Mr. Minafer interposed. \"Let's have a little peace!\"\n\n\"I'm willing,\" said George. \"I don't want to see poor Aunt Fanny all\nstirred up over a rumour I just this minute invented myself. She's so\nexcitable--about certain subjects--it's hard to control her.\" He turned\nto his mother. \"What's the matter with grandfather?\"\n\n\"Didn't you see him this morning?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"Yes. He was glad to see me, and all that, but he seemed pretty fidgety.\nHas he been having trouble with his heart again?\"\n\n\"Not lately. No.\"\n\n\"Well, he's not himself. I tried to talk to him about the estate; it's\ndisgraceful--it really is--the way things are looking. He wouldn't\nlisten, and he seemed upset. What's he upset over?\"\n\nIsabel looked serious; however, it was her husband who suggested\ngloomily, \"I suppose the Major's bothered about this Sydney and Amelia\nbusiness, most likely.\"\n\n\"What Sydney and Amelia business?\" George asked.\n\n\"Your mother can tell you, if she wants to,\" Minafer said. \"It's not my\nside of the family, so I keep off.\"\n\n\"It's rather disagreeable for all of us, Georgie,\" Isabel began. \"You\nsee, your Uncle Sydney wanted a diplomatic position, and he thought\nbrother George, being in Congress, could arrange it. George did get him\nthe offer of a South American ministry, but Sydney wanted a European\nambassadorship, and he got quite indignant with poor George for thinking\nhe'd take anything smaller--and he believes George didn't work hard\nenough for him. George had done his best, of course, and now he's out\nof Congress, and won't run again--so there's Sydney's idea of a big\ndiplomatic position gone for good. Well, Sydney and your Aunt Amelia are\nterribly disappointed, and they say they've been thinking for years\nthat this town isn't really fit to live in--'for a gentleman,' Sydney\nsays--and it is getting rather big and dirty. So they've sold their\nhouse and decided to go abroad to live permanently; there's a villa near\nFlorence they've often talked of buying. And they want father to let\nthem have their share of the estate now, instead of waiting for him to\nleave it to them in his will.\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose that's fair enough,\" George said. \"That is, in case he\nintended to leave them a certain amount in his will.\"\n\n\"Of course that's understood, Georgie. Father explained his will to us\nlong ago; a third to them, and a third to brother George, and a third to\nus.\"\n\nHer son made a simple calculation in his mind. Uncle George was a\nbachelor, and probably would never marry; Sydney and Amelia were\nchildless. The Major's only grandchild appeared to remain the eventual\nheir of the entire property, no matter if the Major did turn over\nto Sydney a third of it now. And George had a fragmentary vision\nof himself, in mourning, arriving to take possession of a historic\nFlorentine villa--he saw himself walking up a cypress-bordered path,\nwith ancient carven stone balustrades in the distance, and servants\nin mourning livery greeting the new signore. \"Well, I suppose it's\ngrandfather's own affair. He can do it or not, just as he likes. I don't\nsee why he'd mind much.\"\n\n\"He seemed rather confused and pained about it,\" Isabel said. \"I think\nthey oughtn't to urge it. George says that the estate won't stand taking\nout the third that Sydney wants, and that Sydney and Amelia are behaving\nlike a couple of pigs.\" She laughed, continuing, \"Of course I don't know\nwhether they are or not: I never have understood any more about business\nmyself than a little pig would! But I'm on George's side, whether he's\nright or wrong; I always was from the time we were children: and Sydney\nand Amelia are hurt with me about it, I'm afraid. They've stopped\nspeaking to George entirely. Poor father Family rows at his time of\nlife.\"\n\nGeorge became thoughtful. If Sydney and Amelia were behaving like pigs,\nthings might not be so simple as at first they seemed to be. Uncle\nSydney and Aunt Amelia might live an awful long while, he thought; and\nbesides, people didn't always leave their fortunes to relatives. Sydney\nmight die first, leaving everything to his widow, and some curly-haired\nItalian adventurer might get round her, over there in Florence; she\nmight be fool enough to marry again--or even adopt somebody!\n\nHe became more and more thoughtful, forgetting entirely a plan he had\nformed for the continued teasing of his Aunt Fanny; and, an hour after\nlunch, he strolled over to his grandfather's, intending to apply for\nfurther information, as a party rightfully interested.\n\nHe did not carry out this intention, however. Going into the big house\nby a side entrance, he was informed that the Major was upstairs in his\nbedroom, that his sons Sydney and George were both with him, and that a\nserious argument was in progress. \"You kin stan' right in de middle dat\nbig, sta'y-way,\" said Old Sam, the ancient negro, who was his informant,\n\"an' you kin heah all you a-mind to wivout goin' on up no fudda. Mist'\nSydney an' Mist' Jawge talkin' louduh'n I evuh heah nobody ca'y on in\nnish heah house! Quollin', honey, big quollin'!\"\n\n\"All right,\" said George shortly. \"You go on back to your own part of\nthe house, and don't make any talk. Hear me?\"\n\n\"Yessuh, yessuh,\" Sam chuckled, as he shuffled away. \"Plenty talkin'\nwivout Sam! Yessuh!\"\n\nGeorge went to the foot of the great stairway. He could hear angry\nvoices overhead--those of his two uncles--and a plaintive murmur, as if\nthe Major tried to keep the peace. Such sounds were far from encouraging\nto callers, and George decided not to go upstairs until this interview\nwas over. His decision was the result of no timidity, nor of a too\nsensitive delicacy. What he felt was, that if he interrupted the scene\nin his grandfather's room, just at this time, one of the three gentlemen\nengaging in it might speak to him in a peremptory manner (in the heat\nof the moment) and George saw no reason for exposing his dignity to such\nmischances. Therefore he turned from the stairway, and going quietly\ninto the library, picked up a magazine--but he did not open it, for his\nattention was instantly arrested by his Aunt Amelia's voice, speaking in\nthe next room. The door was open and George heard her distinctly.\n\n\"Isabel does? Isabel!\" she exclaimed, her tone high and shrewish. \"You\nneedn't tell me anything about Isabel Minafer, I guess, my dear old\nFrank Bronson! I know her a little better than you do, don't you think?\"\n\nGeorge heard the voice of Mr. Bronson replying--a voice familiar to him\nas that of his grandfather's attorney-in-chief and chief intimate as\nwell. He was a contemporary of the Major's, being over seventy, and they\nhad been through three years of the War in the same regiment. Amelia\naddressed him now, with an effect of angry mockery, as \"my dear old\nFrank Bronson\"; but that (without the mockery) was how the Amberson\nfamily almost always spoke of him: \"dear old Frank Bronson.\" He was a\nhale, thin old man, six feet three inches tall, and without a stoop.\n\n\"I doubt your knowing Isabel,\" he said stiffly. \"You speak of her as you\ndo because she sides with her brother George, instead of with you and\nSydney.\"\n\n\"Pooh!\" Aunt Amelia was evidently in a passion. \"You know what's been\ngoing on over there, well enough, Frank Bronson!\"\n\n\"I don't even know what you're talking about.\"\n\n\"Oh, you don't? You don't know that Isabel takes George's side simply\nbecause he's Eugene Morgan's best friend?\"\n\n\"It seems to me you're talking pure nonsense,\" said Bronson sharply.\n\"Not impure nonsense, I hope!\"\n\nAmelia became shrill. \"I thought you were a man of the world: don't\ntell me you're blind! For nearly two years Isabel's been pretending\nto chaperone Fanny Minafer with Eugene, and all the time she's been\ndragging that poor fool Fanny around to chaperone her and Eugene! Under\nthe circumstances, she knows people will get to thinking Fanny's a\npretty slim kind of chaperone, and Isabel wants to please George because\nshe thinks there'll be less talk if she can keep her own brother around,\nseeming to approve. 'Talk!' She'd better look out! The whole town will\nbe talking, the first thing she knows! She--\"\n\nAmelia stopped, and stared at the doorway in a panic, for her nephew\nstood there.\n\nShe kept her eyes upon his white face for a few strained moments, then,\nregaining her nerve, looked away and shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\"You weren't intended to hear what I've been saying, George,\" she\nsaid quietly. \"But since you seem to--\"\n\n\"Yes, I did.\"\n\n\"So!\" She shrugged her shoulders again. \"After all, I don't know but\nit's just as well, in the long run.\"\n\nHe walked up to where she sat. \"You--you--\" he said thickly. \"It\nseems--it seems to me you're--you're pretty common!\"\n\nAmelia tried to give the impression of an unconcerned person laughing\nwith complete indifference, but the sounds she produced were disjointed\nand uneasy. She fanned herself, looking out of the open window near her.\n\"Of course, if you want to make more trouble in the family than we've\nalready got, George, with your eavesdropping, you can go and repeat--\"\n\nOld Bronson had risen from his chair in great distress. \"Your aunt was\ntalking nonsense because she's piqued over a business matter, George,\"\nhe said. \"She doesn't mean what she said, and neither she nor any one\nelse gives the slightest credit to such foolishness--no one in the\nworld!\"\n\nGeorge gulped, and wet lines shone suddenly along his lower eyelids.\n\"They--they'd better not!\" he said, then stalked out of the room, and\nout of the house. He stamped fiercely across the stone slabs of the\nfront porch, descended the steps, and halted abruptly, blinking in the\nstrong sunshine.\n\nIn front of his own gate, beyond the Major's broad lawn, his mother was\njust getting into her victoria, where sat already his Aunt Fanny\nand Lucy Morgan. It was a summer fashion-picture: the three ladies\ncharmingly dressed, delicate parasols aloft; the lines of the victoria\ngraceful as those of a violin; the trim pair of bays in glistening\nharness picked out with silver, and the serious black driver whom\nIsabel, being an Amberson, dared even in that town to put into a black\nlivery coat, boots, white breeches, and cockaded hat. They jingled\nsmartly away, and, seeing George standing on the Major's lawn, Lucy\nwaved, and Isabel threw him a kiss.\n\nBut George shuddered, pretending not to see them, and stooped as if\nsearching for something lost in the grass, protracting that posture\nuntil the victoria was out of hearing. And ten minutes later, George\nAmberson, somewhat in the semblance of an angry person plunging out of\nthe Mansion, found a pale nephew waiting to accost him.\n\n\"I haven't time to talk, Georgie.\"\n\n\"Yes, you have. You'd better!\"\n\n\"What's the matter, then?\"\n\nHis namesake drew him away from the vicinity of the house. \"I want to\ntell you something I just heard Aunt Amelia say, in there.\"\n\n\"I don't want to hear it,\" said Amberson. \"I've been hearing entirely\ntoo much of what 'Aunt Amelia, says, lately.\"\n\n\"She says my mother's on your side about this division of the property\nbecause you're Eugene Morgan's best friend.\"\n\n\"What in the name of heaven has that got to do with your mother's being\non my side?\"\n\n\"She said--\" George paused to swallow. \"She said--\" He faltered.\n\n\"You look sick,\" said his uncle; and laughed shortly. \"If it's because\nof anything Amelia's been saying, I don't blame you! What else did she\nsay?\"\n\nGeorge swallowed again, as with nausea, but under his uncle's\nencouragement he was able to be explicit. \"She said my mother wanted you\nto be friendly to her about Eugene Morgan. She said my mother had been\nusing Aunt Fanny as a chaperone.\"\n\nAmberson emitted a laugh of disgust. \"It's wonderful what tommy-rot a\nwoman in a state of spite can think of! I suppose you don't doubt that\nAmelia Amberson created this specimen of tommy-rot herself?\"\n\n\"I know she did.\"\n\n\"Then what's the matter?\"\n\n\"She said--\" George faltered again. \"She said--she implied people\nwere--were talking about it.\"\n\n\"Of all the damn nonsense!\" his uncle exclaimed. George looked at him\nhaggardly. \"You're sure they're not?\"\n\n\"Rubbish! Your mother's on my side about this division because she knows\nSydney's a pig and always has been a pig, and so has his spiteful wife.\nI'm trying to keep them from getting the better of your mother as well\nas from getting the better of me, don't you suppose? Well, they're in\na rage because Sydney always could do what he liked with father unless\nyour mother interfered, and they know I got Isabel to ask him not to\ndo what they wanted. They're keeping up the fight and they're sore--and\nAmelia's a woman who always says any damn thing that comes into her\nhead! That's all there is to it.\"\n\n\"But she said,\" George persisted wretchedly; \"she said there was talk.\nShe said--\"\n\n\"Look here, young fellow!\" Amberson laughed good-naturedly. \"There\nprobably is some harmless talk about the way your Aunt Fanny goes after\npoor Eugene, and I've no doubt I've abetted it myself. People can't help\nbeing amused by a thing like that. Fanny was always languishing at him,\ntwenty-odd years ago, before he left here. Well, we can't blame the poor\nthing if she's got her hopes up again, and I don't know that I blame\nher, myself, for using your mother the way she does.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\"\n\nAmberson put his hand on George's shoulder. \"You like to tease Fanny,\"\nhe said, \"but I wouldn't tease her about this, if I were you. Fanny\nhasn't got much in her life. You know, Georgie, just being an aunt isn't\nreally the great career it may sometimes appear to you! In fact, I\ndon't know of anything much that Fanny has got, except her feeling\nabout Eugene. She's always had it--and what's funny to us is pretty much\nlife-and-death to her, I suspect. Now, I'll not deny that Eugene Morgan\nis attracted to your mother. He is; and that's another case of 'always\nwas'; but I know him, and he's a knight, George--a crazy one, perhaps,\nif you've read 'Don Quixote.' And I think your mother likes him better\nthan she likes any man outside her own family, and that he interests her\nmore than anybody else--and 'always has.' And that's all there is to it,\nexcept--\"\n\n\"Except what?\" George asked quickly, as he paused.\n\n\"Except that I suspect--\" Amberson chuckled, and began over: \"I'll tell\nyou in confidence. I think Fanny's a fairly tricky customer, for such an\ninnocent old girl! There isn't any real harm in her, but she's a great\ndiplomatist--lots of cards up her lace sleeves, Georgie! By the way,\ndid you ever notice how proud she is of her arms? Always flashing 'em at\npoor Eugene!\" And he stopped to laugh again.\n\n\"I don't see anything confidential about that,\" George complained. \"I\nthought--\"\n\n\"Wait a minute! My idea is--don't forget it's a confidential one, but\nI'm devilish right about it, young Georgie!--it's this: Fanny uses your\nmother for a decoy duck. She does everything in the world she can to\nkeep your mother's friendship with Eugene going, because she thinks\nthat's what keeps Eugene about the place, so to speak. Fanny's always\nwith your mother, you see; and whenever he sees Isabel he sees Fanny.\nFanny thinks he'll get used to the idea of her being around, and some\nday her chance may come! You see, she's probably afraid--perhaps she\neven knows, poor thing!--that she wouldn't get to see much of Eugene if\nit weren't for Isabel's being such a friend of his. There! D'you see?\"\n\n\"Well--I suppose so.\" George's brow was still dark, however. \"If you're\nsure whatever talk there is, is about Aunt Fanny. If that's so--\"\n\n\"Don't be an ass,\" his uncle advised him lightly, moving away. \"I'm off\nfor a week's fishing to forget that woman in there, and her pig of a\nhusband.\" (His gesture toward the Mansion indicated Mr. and Mrs. Sydney\nAmberson.) \"I recommend a like course to you, if you're silly enough to\npay any attention to such rubbishings! Good-bye!\"\n\nGeorge was partially reassured, but still troubled: a word haunted him\nlike the recollection of a nightmare. \"Talk!\"\n\nHe stood looking at the houses across the street from the Mansion;\nand though the sunshine was bright upon them, they seemed mysteriously\nthreatening. He had always despised them, except the largest of them,\nwhich was the home of his henchman, Charlie Johnson. The Johnsons had\noriginally owned a lot three hundred feet wide, but they had sold all of\nit except the meager frontage before the house itself, and five\nhouses were now crowded into the space where one used to squire it so\nspaciously. Up and down the street, the same transformation had taken\nplace: every big, comfortable old brick house now had two or three\nsmaller frame neighbours crowding up to it on each side, cheap-looking\nneighbours, most of them needing paint and not clean--and yet, though\nthey were cheap looking, they had cost as much to build as the big brick\nhouses, whose former ample yards they occupied. Only where George stood\nwas there left a sward as of yore; the great, level, green lawn that\nserved for both the Major's house and his daughter's. This serene\ndomain--unbroken, except for the two gravelled carriage-drives--alone\nremained as it had been during the early glories of the Amberson\nAddition.\n\nGeorge stared at the ugly houses opposite, and hated them more than\never; but he shivered. Perhaps the riffraff living in those houses sat\nat the windows to watch their betters; perhaps they dared to gossip--\n\nHe uttered an exclamation, and walked rapidly toward his own front gate.\nThe victoria had returned with Miss Fanny alone; she jumped out briskly\nand the victoria waited.\n\n\"Where's mother?\" George asked sharply, as he met her.\n\n\"At Lucy's. I only came back to get some embroidery, because we found\nthe sun too hot for driving. I'm in a hurry.\"\n\nBut, going into the house with her, he detained her when she would have\nhastened upstairs.\n\n\"I haven't time to talk now, Georgie; I'm going right back. I promised\nyour mother--\"\n\n\"You listen!\" said George.\n\n\"What on earth--\"\n\nHe repeated what Amelia had said. This time, however, he spoke coldly,\nand without the emotion he had exhibited during the recital to his\nuncle: Fanny was the one who showed agitation during this interview, for\nshe grew fiery red, and her eyes dilated. \"What on earth do you want to\nbring such trash to me for?\" she demanded, breathing fast.\n\n\"I merely wished to know two things: whether it is your duty or mine to\nspeak to father of what Aunt Amelia--\"\n\nFanny stamped her foot. \"You little fool!\" she cried. \"You awful little\nfool!\"\n\n\"I decline--\"\n\n\"Decline, my hat! Your father's a sick man, and you--\"\n\n\"He doesn't seem so to me.\"\n\n\"Well, he does to me! And you want to go troubling him with an Amberson\nfamily row! It's just what that cat would love you to do!\"\n\n\"Well, I--\"\n\n\"Tell your father if you like! It will only make him a little sicker to\nthink he's got a son silly enough to listen to such craziness!\"\n\n\"Then you're sure there isn't any talk?\" Fanny disdained a reply in\nwords. She made a hissing sound of utter contempt and snapped her\nfingers. Then she asked scornfully: \"What's the other thing you wanted\nto know?\"\n\nGeorge's pallor increased. \"Whether it mightn't be better, under the\ncircumstances,\" he said, \"if this family were not so intimate with the\nMorgan family--at least for a time. It might be better--\"\n\nFanny stared at him incredulously. \"You mean you'd quit seeing Lucy?\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought of that side of it, but if such a thing were necessary\non account of talk about my mother, I--I--\" He hesitated unhappily. \"I\nsuggested that if all of us--for a time--perhaps only for a time--it\nmight be better if--\"\n\n\"See here,\" she interrupted. \"We'll settle this nonsense right now. If\nEugene Morgan comes to this house, for instance, to see me, your mother\ncan't get up and leave the place the minute he gets here, can she? What\ndo you want her to do: insult him? Or perhaps you'd prefer she'd insult\nLucy? That would do just as well. What is it you're up to, anyhow? Do\nyou really love your Aunt Amelia so much that you want to please her?\nOr do you really hate your Aunt Fanny so much that you want to--that you\nwant to--\"\n\nShe choked and sought for her handkerchief; suddenly she began to cry.\n\n\"Oh, see here,\" George said. \"I don't hate you,\" Aunt Fanny. \"That's\nsilly. I don't--\"\n\n\"You do! You do! You want to--you want to destroy the only thing--that\nI--that I ever--\" And, unable to continue, she became inaudible in her\nhandkerchief.\n\nGeorge felt remorseful, and his own troubles were lightened: all at\nonce it became clear to him that he had been worrying about nothing. He\nperceived that his Aunt Amelia was indeed an old cat, and that to give\nher scandalous meanderings another thought would be the height of folly.\nBy no means unsusceptible to such pathos as that now exposed before\nhim, he did not lack pity for Fanny, whose almost spoken confession was\nlamentable; and he was granted the vision to understand that his mother\nalso pitied Fanny infinitely more than he did. This seemed to explain\neverything.\n\nHe patted the unhappy lady awkwardly upon her shoulder. \"There, there!\"\nhe said. \"I didn't mean anything. Of course the only thing to do about\nAunt Amelia is to pay no attention to her. It's all right, Aunt Fanny.\nDon't cry. I feel a lot better now, myself. Come on; I'll drive back\nthere with you. It's all over, and nothing's the matter. Can't you cheer\nup?\"\n\nFanny cheered up; and presently the customarily hostile aunt and\nnephew were driving out Amberson Boulevard amiably together in the hot\nsunshine.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV\n\n\n\n\"Almost\" was Lucy's last word on the last night of George's\nvacation--that vital evening which she had half consented to agree upon\nfor \"settling things\" between them. \"Almost engaged,\" she meant. And\nGeorge, discontented with the \"almost,\" but contented that she seemed\nglad to wear a sapphire locket with a tiny photograph of George Amberson\nMinafer inside it, found himself wonderful in a new world at the final\ninstant of their parting. For, after declining to let him kiss\nher \"good-bye,\" as if his desire for such a ceremony were the most\npreposterous absurdity in the world, she had leaned suddenly close to\nhim and left upon his cheek the veriest feather from a fairy's wing.\n\nShe wrote him a month later:\n\nNo. It must keep on being almost.\n\nIsn't almost pretty pleasant? You know well enough that I care for you.\nI did from the first minute I saw you, and I'm pretty sure you\nknew it--I'm afraid you did. I'm afraid you always knew it. I'm not\nconventional and cautious about being engaged, as you say I am, dear. (I\nalways read over the \"dears\" in your letters a time or two, as you say\nyou do in mine--only I read all of your letters a time or two!) But\nit's such a solemn thing it scares me. It means a good deal to a lot\nof people besides you and me, and that scares me, too. You write that I\ntake your feeling for me \"too lightly\" and that I \"take the whole affair\ntoo lightly.\" Isn't that odd! Because to myself I seem to take it\nas something so much more solemn than you do. I shouldn't be a bit\nsurprised to find myself an old lady, some day, still thinking of\nyou--while you'd be away and away with somebody else perhaps, and me\nforgotten ages ago! \"Lucy Morgan,\" you'd say, when you saw my obituary.\n\"Lucy Morgan? Let me see: I seem to remember the name. Didn't I know\nsome Lucy Morgan or other, once upon a time?\" Then you'd shake your\nbig white head and stroke your long white beard--you'd have such a\ndistinguished long white beard! and you'd say, 'No. I don't seem to\nremember any Lucy Morgan; I wonder what made me think I did?' And poor\nme! I'd be deep in the ground, wondering if you'd heard about it and\nwhat you were saying! Good-bye for to-day. Don't work too hard--dear!\n\nGeorge immediately seized pen and paper, plaintively but vigorously\nrequesting Lucy not to imagine him with a beard, distinguished or\notherwise, even in the extremities of age. Then, after inscribing his\nprotest in the matter of this visioned beard, he concluded his missive\nin a tone mollified to tenderness, and proceeded to read a letter from\nhis mother which had reached him simultaneously with Lucy's. Isabel\nwrote from Asheville, where she had just arrived with her husband.\n\nI think your father looks better already, darling, though we've been\nhere only a few hours It may be we've found just the place to build him\nup. The doctors said they hoped it would prove to be, and if it is, it\nwould be worth the long struggle we had with him to get him to give up\nand come. Poor dear man, he was so blue, not about his health but about\ngiving up the worries down at his office and forgetting them for a\ntime--if he only will forget them! It took the pressure of the family\nand all his best friends, to get him to come--but father and brother\nGeorge and Fanny and Eugene Morgan all kept at him so constantly that he\njust had to give in. I'm afraid that in my anxiety to get him to do what\nthe doctors wanted him to, I wasn't able to back up brother George as I\nshould in his difficulty with Sydney and Amelia. I'm so sorry! George\nis more upset than I've ever seen him--they've got what they wanted, and\nthey're sailing before long, I hear, to live in Florence. Father said he\ncouldn't stand the constant persuading--I'm afraid the word he used was\n\"nagging.\" I can't understand people behaving like that. George says\nthey may be Ambersons, but they're vulgar! I'm afraid I almost agree\nwith him. At least, I think they were inconsiderate. But I don't see\nwhy I'm unburdening myself of all this to you, poor darling! We'll have\nforgotten all about it long before you come home for the holidays, and\nit should mean little or nothing to you, anyway. Forget that I've been\nso foolish!\n\nYour father is waiting for me to take a walk with him--that's a splendid\nsign, because he hasn't felt he could walk much, at home, lately. I\nmustn't keep him waiting. Be careful to wear your mackintosh and rubbers\nin rainy weather, and, as soon as it begins to get colder, your ulster.\nWish you could see your father now. Looks so much better! We plan to\nstay six weeks if the place agrees with him. It does really seem to\nalready! He's just called in the door to say he's waiting. Don't smoke\ntoo much, darling boy.\n\nDevotedly, your mother Isabel.\n\nBut she did not keep her husband there for the six weeks she\nanticipated. She did not keep him anywhere that long. Three weeks after\nwriting this letter, she telegraphed suddenly to George that they were\nleaving for home at once; and four days later, when he and a friend\ncame whistling into his study, from lunch at the club, he found another\ntelegram upon his desk.\n\nHe read it twice before he comprehended its import.\n\nPapa left us at ten this morning, dearest. Mother.\n\nThe friend saw the change in his face. \"Not bad news?\"\n\nGeorge lifted utterly dumfounded eyes from the yellow paper.\n\n\"My father,\" he said weakly. \"She says--she says he's dead. I've got to\ngo home.\"\n\nHis Uncle George and the Major met him at the station when he\narrived--the first time the Major had ever come to meet his grandson.\nThe old gentleman sat in his closed carriage (which still needed paint)\nat the entrance to the station, but he got out and advanced to grasp\nGeorge's hand tremulously, when the latter appeared. \"Poor fellow!\" he\nsaid, and patted him repeatedly upon the shoulder. \"Poor fellow! Poor\nGeorgie!\"\n\nGeorge had not yet come to a full realization of his loss: so far,\nhis condition was merely dazed; and as the Major continued to pat him,\nmurmuring \"Poor fellow!\" over and over, George was seized by an almost\nirresistible impulse to tell his grandfather that he was not a poodle.\nBut he said \"Thanks,\" in a low voice, and got into the carriage, his\ntwo relatives following with deferential sympathy. He noticed that the\nMajor's tremulousness did not disappear, as they drove up the street,\nand that he seemed much feebler than during the summer. Principally,\nhowever, George was concerned with his own emotion, or rather, with his\nlack of emotion; and the anxious sympathy of his grandfather and his\nuncle made him feel hypocritical. He was not grief-stricken; but he felt\nthat he ought to be, and, with a secret shame, concealed his callousness\nbeneath an affectation of solemnity.\n\nBut when he was taken into the room where lay what was left of Wilbur\nMinafer, George had no longer to pretend; his grief was sufficient. It\nneeded only the sight of that forever inert semblance of the quiet man\nwho had been always so quiet a part of his son's life--so quiet a part\nthat George had seldom been consciously aware that his father was indeed\na part of his life. As the figure lay there, its very quietness was\nwhat was most lifelike; and suddenly it struck George hard. And in that\nunexpected, racking grief of his son, Wilbur Minafer became more vividly\nGeorge's father than he had ever been in life.\n\nWhen George left the room, his arm was about his black-robed mother, his\nshoulders were still shaken with sobs. He leaned upon his mother; she\ngently comforted him; and presently he recovered his composure and\nbecame self-conscious enough to wonder if he had not been making an\nunmanly display of himself. \"I'm all right again, mother,\" he said\nawkwardly. \"Don't worry about me: you'd better go lie down, or\nsomething; you look pretty pale.\"\n\nIsabel did look pretty pale, but not ghastly pale, as Fanny did. Fanny's\ngrief was overwhelming; she stayed in her room, and George did not\nsee her until the next day, a few minutes before the funeral, when her\nhaggard face appalled him. But by this time he was quite himself again,\nand during the short service in the cemetery his thoughts even wandered\nso far as to permit him a feeling of regret not directly connected with\nhis father. Beyond the open flower-walled grave was a mound where new\ngrass grew; and here lay his great-uncle, old John Minafer, who had\ndied the previous autumn; and beyond this were the graves of George's\ngrandfather and grandmother Minafer, and of his grandfather Minafer's\nsecond wife, and her three sons, George's half-uncles, who had been\ndrowned together in a canoe accident when George was a child--Fanny was\nthe last of the family. Next beyond was the Amberson family lot, where\nlay the Major's wife and their sons Henry and Milton, uncles whom George\ndimly remembered; and beside them lay Isabel's older sister, his Aunt\nEstelle, who had died, in her girlhood, long before George was born. The\nMinafer monument was a granite block, with the name chiseled upon its\none polished side, and the Amberson monument was a white marble shaft\ntaller than any other in that neighbourhood. But farther on there was a\nnewer section of the cemetery, an addition which had been thrown open to\noccupancy only a few years before, after dexterous modern treatment by\na landscape specialist. There were some large new mausoleums here, and\nshafts taller than the Ambersons', as well as a number of monuments of\nsome sculptural pretentiousness; and altogether the new section appeared\nto be a more fashionable and important quarter than that older one which\ncontained the Amberson and Minafer lots. This was what caused George's\nregret, during the moment or two when his mind strayed from his father\nand the reading of the service.\n\nOn the train, going back to college, ten days later, this regret (though\nit was as much an annoyance as a regret) recurred to his mind, and a\nfeeling developed within him that the new quarter of the cemetery was\nin bad taste--not architecturally or sculpturally perhaps, but in\npresumption: it seemed to flaunt a kind of parvenu ignorance, as if it\nwere actually pleased to be unaware that all the aristocratic and really\nimportant families were buried in the old section.\n\nThe annoyance gave way before a recollection of the sweet mournfulness\nof his mother's face, as she had said good-bye to him at the station,\nand of how lovely she looked in her mourning. He thought of Lucy, whom\nhe had seen only twice, and he could not help feeling that in these\nquiet interviews he had appeared to her as tinged with heroism--she had\nshown, rather than said, how brave she thought him in his sorrow. But\nwhat came most vividly to George's mind, during these retrospections,\nwas the despairing face of his Aunt Fanny. Again and again he thought of\nit; he could not avoid its haunting. And for days, after he got back\nto college, the stricken likeness of Fanny would appear before him\nunexpectedly, and without a cause that he could trace in his immediately\nprevious thoughts. Her grief had been so silent, yet it had so amazed\nhim.\n\nGeorge felt more and more compassion for this ancient antagonist of his,\nand he wrote to his mother about her:\n\nI'm afraid poor Aunt Fanny might think now father's gone we won't want\nher to live with us any longer and because I always teased her so much\nshe might think I'd be for turning her out. I don't know where on earth\nshe'd go or what she could live on if we did do something like this, and\nof course we never would do such a thing, but I'm pretty sure she had\nsomething of the kind on her mind. She didn't say anything, but the way\nshe looked is what makes me think so. Honestly, to me she looked just\nscared sick. You tell her there isn't any danger in the world of my\ntreating her like that. Tell her everything is to go on just as it\nalways has. Tell her to cheer up!\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV\n\n\n\nIsabel did more for Fanny than telling her to cheer up. Everything that\nFanny inherited from her father, old Aleck Minafer, had been invested\nin Wilbur's business; and Wilbur's business, after a period of illness\ncorresponding in dates to the illness of Wilbur's body, had died just\nbefore Wilbur did. George Amberson and Fanny were both \"wiped out to\na miracle of precision,\" as Amberson said. They \"owned not a penny and\nowed not a penny,\" he continued, explaining his phrase. \"It's like the\nmoment just before drowning: you're not under water and you're not out\nof it. All you know is that you're not dead yet.\"\n\nHe spoke philosophically, having his \"prospects\" from his father to fall\nback upon; but Fanny had neither \"prospects\" nor philosophy. However,\na legal survey of Wilbur's estate revealed the fact that his life\ninsurance was left clear of the wreck; and Isabel, with the cheerful\nconsent of her son, promptly turned this salvage over to her\nsister-in-law. Invested, it would yield something better than nine\nhundred dollars a year, and thus she was assured of becoming neither a\npauper nor a dependent, but proved to be, as Amberson said, adding his\nefforts to the cheering up of Fanny, \"an heiress, after all, in spite of\nrolling mills and the devil.\" She was unable to smile, and he continued\nhis humane gayeties. \"See what a wonderfully desirable income nine\nhundred dollars is, Fanny: a bachelor, to be in your class, must have\nexactly forty-nine thousand one hundred a year. Then, you see, all you\nneed to do, in order to have fifty thousand a year, is to be a little\nencouraging when some bachelor in your class begins to show by his\nhaberdashery what he wants you to think about him!\"\n\nShe looked at him wanly, murmured a desolate response--she had \"sewing\nto do\"--and left the room; while Amberson shook his head ruefully at\nhis sister. \"I've often thought that humor was not my forte,\" he sighed.\n\"Lord! She doesn't 'cheer up' much!\"\n\nThe collegian did not return to his home for the holidays. Instead,\nIsabel joined him, and they went South for the two weeks. She was proud\nof her stalwart, good-looking son at the hotel where they stayed, and it\nwas meat and drink to her when she saw how people stared at him in the\nlobby and on the big verandas--indeed, her vanity in him was so dominant\nthat she was unaware of their staring at her with more interest and an\nadmiration friendlier than George evoked. Happy to have him to herself\nfor this fortnight, she loved to walk with him, leaning upon his arm, to\nread with him, to watch the sea with him--perhaps most of all she liked\nto enter the big dining room with him.\n\nYet both of them felt constantly the difference between this\nChristmastime and other Christmas-times of theirs--in all, it was a\nsorrowful holiday. But when Isabel came East for George's commencement,\nin June, she brought Lucy with her--and things began to seem different,\nespecially when George Amberson arrived with Lucy's father on Class Day.\nEugene had been in New York, on business; Amberson easily persuaded\nhim to this outing; and they made a cheerful party of it, with the new\ngraduate of course the hero and center of it all.\n\nHis uncle was a fellow alumnus. \"Yonder was where I roomed when I was\nhere,\" he said, pointing out one of the university buildings to Eugene.\n\"I don't know whether George would let my admirers place a tablet to\nmark the spot, or not. He owns all these buildings now, you know.\"\n\n\"Didn't you, when you were here? Like uncle, like nephew.\"\n\n\"Don't tell George you think he's like me. Just at this time we should\nbe careful of the young gentleman's feelings.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Eugene. \"If we weren't he mightn't let us exist at all.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I didn't have it so badly at his age,\" Amberson said\nreflectively, as they strolled on through the commencement crowd. \"For\none thing, I had brothers and sisters, and my mother didn't just sit\nat my feet as George's does; and I wasn't an only grandchild, either.\nFather's always spoiled Georgie a lot more than he did any of his own'\nchildren.\"\n\nEugene laughed. \"You need only three things to explain all that's good\nand bad about Georgie.\"\n\n\"Three?\"\n\n\"He's Isabel's only child. He's an Amberson. He's a boy.\"\n\n\"Well, Mister Bones, of these three things which are the good ones and\nwhich are the bad ones?\"\n\n\"All of them,\" said Eugene.\n\nIt happened that just then they came in sight of the subject of their\ndiscourse. George was walking under the elms with Lucy, swinging a\nstick and pointing out to her various objects and localities which had\nattained historical value during the last four years. The two older men\nmarked his gestures, careless and graceful; they observed his attitude,\nunconsciously noble, his easy proprietorship of the ground beneath his\nfeet and round about, of the branches overhead, of the old buildings\nbeyond, and of Lucy.\n\n\"I don't know,\" Eugene said, smiling whimsically. \"I don't know. When I\nspoke of his being a human being--I don't know. Perhaps it's more like\ndeity.\"\n\n\"I wonder if I was like that!\" 'Amberson groaned.' \"You don't suppose\nevery Amberson has had to go through it, do you?\"\n\n\"Don't worry! At least half of it is a combination of youth, good looks,\nand college; and even the noblest Ambersons get over their nobility and\ncome to be people in time. It takes more than time, though.\"\n\n\"I should say it did take more than time!\" his friend agreed, shaking a\nrueful head.\n\nThen they walked over to join the loveliest Amberson, whom neither time\nnor trouble seemed to have touched. She stood alone, thoughtful under\nthe great trees, chaperoning George and Lucy at a distance; but, seeing\nthe two friends approaching, she came to meet them.\n\n\"It's charming, isn't it!\" she said, moving her black-gloved hand to\nindicate the summery dressed crowd strolling about them, or clustering\nin groups, each with its own hero. \"They seem so eager and so confident,\nall these boys--it's touching. But of course youth doesn't know it's\ntouching.\"\n\nAmberson coughed. \"No, it doesn't seem to take itself as pathetic,\nprecisely! Eugene and I were just speaking of something like that.\nDo you know what I think whenever I see these smooth, triumphal young\nfaces? I always think: 'Oh, how you're going to catch it'!\"\n\n\"George!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" he said. \"Life's most ingenious: it's got a special walloping\nfor every mother's son of 'em!\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" said Isabel, troubled--\"maybe some of the mothers can take the\nwalloping for them.\"\n\n\"Not one!\" her brother assured her, with emphasis. \"Not any more than\nshe can take on her own face the lines that are bound to come on her\nson's. I suppose you know that all these young faces have got to get\nlines on 'em?\"\n\n\"Maybe they won't,\" she said, smiling wistfully. \"Maybe times will\nchange, and nobody will have to wear lines.\"\n\n\"Times have changed like that for only one person that I know,\" Eugene\nsaid. And as Isabel looked inquiring, he laughed, and she saw that she\nwas the \"only one person.\" His implication was justified, moreover, and\nshe knew it. She blushed charmingly.\n\n\"Which is it puts the lines on the faces?\" Amberson asked. \"Is it age\nor trouble? Of course we can't decide that wisdom does it--we must be\npolite to Isabel.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what puts the lines there,\" Eugene said. \"Age puts some,\nand trouble puts some, and work puts some, but the deepest are carved by\nlack of faith. The serenest brow is the one that believes the most.\"\n\n\"In what?\" Isabel asked gently.\n\n\"In everything!\"\n\nShe looked at him inquiringly, and he laughed as he had a moment before,\nwhen she looked at him that way. \"Oh, yes, you do!\" he said.\n\nShe continued to look at him inquiringly a moment or two longer, and\nthere was an unconscious earnestness in her glance, something trustful\nas well as inquiring, as if she knew that whatever he meant it was all\nright. Then her eyes drooped thoughtfully, and she seemed to address\nsome inquiries to herself. She looked up suddenly. \"Why, I believe,\" she\nsaid, in a tone of surprise, \"I believe I do!\"\n\nAnd at that both men laughed. \"Isabel!\" her brother exclaimed. \"You're\na foolish person! There are times when you look exactly fourteen years\nold!\"\n\nBut this reminded her of her real affair in that part of the world.\n\"Good gracious!\" she said. \"Where have the children got to? We must take\nLucy pretty soon, so that George can go and sit with the Class. We must\ncatch up with them.\"\n\nShe took her brother's arm, and the three moved on, looking about them\nin the crowd.\n\n\"Curious,\" Amberson remarked, as they did not immediately discover the\nyoung people they sought. \"Even in such a concourse one would think we\ncouldn't fail to see the proprietor.\"\n\n\"Several hundred proprietors today,\" Eugene suggested.\n\n\"No; they're only proprietors of the university,\" said George's uncle.\n\"We're looking for the proprietor of the universe.\"\n\n\"There he is!\" cried Isabel fondly, not minding this satire at all. \"And\ndoesn't he look it!\"\n\nHer escorts were still laughing at her when they joined the proprietor\nof the universe and his pretty friend, and though both Amberson and\nEugene declined to explain the cause of their mirth, even upon Lucy's\nurgent request, the portents of the day were amiable, and the five made\na happy party--that is to say, four of them made a happy audience for\nthe fifth, and the mood of this fifth was gracious and cheerful.\n\nGeorge took no conspicuous part in either the academic or the social\ncelebrations of his class; he seemed to regard both sets of exercises\nwith a tolerant amusement, his own \"crowd\" \"not going in much for either\nof those sorts of things,\" as he explained to Lucy. What his crowd had\ngone in for remained ambiguous; some negligent testimony indicating\nthat, except for an astonishing reliability which they all seemed to\nhave attained in matters relating to musical comedy, they had not gone\nin for anything. Certainly the question one of them put to Lucy, in\nresponse to investigations of hers, seemed to point that way: \"Don't you\nthink,\" he said, \"really, don't you think that being things is rather\nbetter than doing things?\"\n\nHe said \"rahthuh bettuh\" for \"rather better,\" and seemed to do it\ndeliberately, with perfect knowledge of what he was doing. Later, Lucy\nmocked him to George, and George refused to smile: he somewhat inclined\nto such pronunciations, himself. This inclination was one of the things\nthat he had acquired in the four years.\n\nWhat else he had acquired, it might have puzzled him to state, had\nanybody asked him and required a direct reply within a reasonable space\nof time. He had learned how to pass examinations by \"cramming\"; that is,\nin three or four days and nights he could get into his head enough of\na selected fragment of some scientific or philosophical or literary or\nlinguistic subject to reply plausibly to six questions out of ten. He\ncould retain the information necessary for such a feat just long enough\nto give a successful performance; then it would evaporate utterly from\nhis brain, and leave him undisturbed. George, like his \"crowd,\" not only\npreferred \"being things\" to \"doing things,\" but had contented himself\nwith four years of \"being things\" as a preparation for going on \"being\nthings.\" And when Lucy rather shyly pressed him for his friend's\nprobable definition of the \"things\" it seemed so superior and beautiful\nto be, George raised his eyebrows slightly, meaning that she should have\nunderstood without explanation; but he did explain: \"Oh, family and all\nthat--being a gentleman, I suppose.\"\n\nLucy gave the horizon a long look, but offered no comment.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI\n\n\n\"Aunt Fanny doesn't look much better,\" George said to his mother, a few\nminutes after their arrival, on the night they got home. He stood with\na towel in her doorway, concluding some sketchy ablutions before going\ndownstairs to a supper which Fanny was hastily preparing for them.\nIsabel had not telegraphed; Fanny was taken by surprise when they drove\nup in a station cab at eleven o'clock; and George instantly demanded \"a\nlittle decent food.\" (Some criticisms of his had publicly disturbed the\ncomposure of the dining-car steward four hours previously.) \"I never\nsaw anybody take things so hard as she seems to,\" he observed, his voice\nmuffled by the towel. \"Doesn't she get over it at all? I thought she'd\nfeel better when we turned over the insurance to her--gave it to her\nabsolutely, without any strings to it. She looks about a thousand years\nold!\"\n\n\"She looks quite girlish, sometimes, though,\" his mother said.\n\n\"Has she looked that way much since father--\"\n\n\"Not so much,\" Isabel said thoughtfully. \"But she will, as times goes\non.\"\n\n\"Time'll have to hurry, then, it seems to me,\" George observed,\nreturning to his own room.\n\nWhen they went down to the dining room, he pronounced acceptable the\nsalmon salad, cold beef, cheese, and cake which Fanny made ready for\nthem without disturbing the servants. The journey had fatigued\nIsabel, she ate nothing, but sat to observe with tired pleasure the\nmanifestations of her son's appetite, meanwhile giving her sister-in-law\na brief summary of the events of commencement. But presently she kissed\nthem both good-night--taking care to kiss George lightly upon the side\nof his head, so as not to disturb his eating--and left aunt and nephew\nalone together.\n\n\"It never was becoming to her to look pale,\" Fanny said absently, a few\nmoments after Isabel's departure.\n\n\"Wha'd you say, Aunt Fanny?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I suppose your mother's been being pretty gay? Going a lot?\"\n\n\"How could she?\" George asked cheerfully. \"In mourning, of course all\nshe could do was just sit around and look on. That's all Lucy could do\neither, for the matter of that.\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" his aunt assented. \"How did Lucy get home?\"\n\nGeorge regarded her with astonishment. \"Why, on the train with the rest\nof us, of course.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean that,\" Fanny explained. \"I meant from the station. Did\nyou drive out to their house with her before you came here?\"\n\n\"No. She drove home with her father, of course.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see. So Eugene came to the station to meet you.\"\n\n\"To meet us?\" George echoed, renewing his attack upon the salmon salad.\n\"How could he?\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" Fanny said drearily, in the desolate voice\nthat had become her habit. \"I haven't seen him while your mother's been\naway.\"\n\n\"Naturally,\" said George. \"He's been East himself.\"\n\nAt this Fanny's drooping eyelids opened wide.\n\n\"Did you see him?\"\n\n\"Well, naturally, since he made the trip home with us!\"\n\n\"He did?\" she said sharply. \"He's been with you all the time?\"\n\n\"No; only on the train and the last three days before we left. Uncle\nGeorge got him to come.\"\n\nFanny's eyelids drooped again, and she sat silent until George pushed\nback his chair and lit a cigarette, declaring his satisfaction with what\nshe had provided. \"You're a fine housekeeper,\" he said benevolently.\n\"You know how to make things look dainty as well as taste the right way.\nI don't believe you'd stay single very long if some of the bachelors and\nwidowers around town could just once see--\"\n\nShe did not hear him. \"It's a little odd,\" she said.\n\n\"What's odd?\"\n\n\"Your mother's not mentioning that Mr. Morgan had been with you.\"\n\n\"Didn't think of it, I suppose,\" said George carelessly; and, his\nbenevolent mood increasing, he conceived the idea that a little harmless\nrallying might serve to elevate his aunt's drooping spirits. \"I'll tell\nyou something, in confidence,\" he said solemnly.\n\nShe looked up, startled. \"What?\"\n\n\"Well, it struck me that Mr. Morgan was looking pretty absent-minded,\nmost of the time; and he certainly is dressing better than he used to.\nUncle George told me he heard that the automobile factory had been doing\nquite well--won a race, too! I shouldn't be a bit surprised if all the\nyoung fellow had been waiting for was to know he had an assured income\nbefore he proposed.\"\n\n\"What 'young fellow'?\"\n\n\"This young fellow Morgan,\" laughed George; \"Honestly, Aunt Fanny, I\nshouldn't be a bit surprised to have him request an interview with me\nany day, and declare that his intentions are honourable, and ask my\npermission to pay his addresses to you. What had I better tell him?\"\n\nFanny burst into tears.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" George cried. \"I was only teasing. I didn't mean--\"\n\n\"Let me alone,\" she said lifelessly; and, continuing to weep, rose and\nbegan to clear away the dishes.\n\n\"Please, Aunt Fanny--\"\n\n\"Just let me alone.\"\n\nGeorge was distressed. \"I didn't mean anything, Aunt Fanny! I didn't\nknow you'd got so sensitive as all that.\"\n\n\"You'd better go up to bed,\" she said desolately, going on with her work\nand her weeping.\n\n\"Anyhow,\" he insisted, \"do let these things wait. Let the servants 'tend\nto the table in the morning.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"But, why not?\"\n\n\"Just let me alone.\"\n\n\"Oh, Lord!\" George groaned, going to the door. There he turned. \"See\nhere, Aunt Fanny, there's not a bit of use your bothering about those\ndishes tonight. What's the use of a butler and three maids if--\"\n\n\"Just let me alone.\"\n\nHe obeyed, and could still hear a pathetic sniffing from the dining room\nas he went up the stairs.\n\n\"By George!\" he grunted, as he reached his own room; and his thought was\nthat living with a person so sensitive to kindly raillery might prove\nlugubrious. He whistled, long and low, then went to the window and\nlooked through the darkness to the great silhouette of his grandfather's\nhouse. Lights were burning over there, upstairs; probably his newly\narrived uncle was engaged in talk with the Major.\n\nGeorge's glance lowered, resting casually upon the indistinct ground,\nand he beheld some vague shapes, unfamiliar to him. Formless heaps, they\nseemed; but, without much curiosity, he supposed that sewer connections\nor water pipes might be out of order, making necessary some excavations.\nHe hoped the work would not take long; he hated to see that sweep of\nlawn made unsightly by trenches and lines of dirt, even temporarily. Not\ngreatly disturbed, however, he pulled down the shade, yawned, and began\nto, undress, leaving further investigation for the morning.\n\nBut in the morning he had forgotten all about it, and raised his shade,\nto let in the light, without even glancing toward the ground. Not until\nhe had finished dressing did he look forth from his window, and then his\nglance was casual. The next instant his attitude became electric, and he\ngave utterance to a bellow of dismay. He ran from his room, plunged\ndown the stairs, out of the front door, and, upon a nearer view of the\ndestroyed lawn, began to release profanity upon the breezeless summer\nair, which remained unaffected. Between his mother's house and his\ngrandfather's, excavations for the cellars of five new houses were in\nprocess, each within a few feet of its neighbour. Foundations of brick\nwere being laid; everywhere were piles of brick and stacked lumber, and\nsand heaps and mortar' beds.\n\nIt was Sunday, and so the workmen implicated in these defacings were\ndenied what unquestionably; they would have considered a treat; but\nas the fanatic orator continued the monologue, a gentleman in\nflannels emerged upward from one of the excavations, and regarded him\ncontemplatively.\n\n\"Obtaining any relief, nephew?\" he inquired with some interest. \"You\nmust have learned quite a number of those expressions in childhood--it's\nso long since I'd heard them I fancied they were obsolete.\"\n\n\"Who wouldn't swear?\" George demanded hotly. \"In the name of God, what\ndoes grandfather mean, doing such things?\"\n\n\"My private opinion is,\" said Amberson gravely, \"he desires to increase\nhis income by building these houses to rent.\"\n\n\"Well, in the name of God, can't he increase his income any other way\nbut this?\"\n\n\"In the name of God, it would appear he couldn't.\"\n\n\"It's beastly! It's a damn degradation! It's a crime!\"\n\n\"I don't know about its being a crime,\" said his uncle, stepping over\nsome planks to join him. \"It might be a mistake, though. Your mother\nsaid not to tell you until we got home, so as not to spoil commencement\nfor you. She rather feared you'd be upset.\"\n\n\"Upset! Oh, my Lord, I should think I would be upset! He's in his second\nchildhood. What did you let him do it for, in the name of--\"\n\n\"Make it in the name of heaven this time, George; it's Sunday. Well, I\nthought, myself, it was a mistake.\"\n\n\"I should say so!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amberson. \"I wanted him to put up an apartment building\ninstead of these houses.\"\n\n\"An apartment building! Here?\"\n\n\"Yes; that was my idea.\"\n\nGeorge struck his hands together despairingly. \"An apartment house! Oh,\nmy Lord!\"\n\n\"Don't worry! Your grandfather wouldn't listen to me, but he'll wish\nhe had, some day. He says that people aren't going to live in miserable\nlittle flats when they can get a whole house with some grass in front\nand plenty of backyard behind. He sticks it out that apartment houses\nwill never do in a town of this type, and when I pointed out to him\nthat a dozen or so of 'em already are doing, he claimed it was just the\nnovelty, and that they'd all be empty as soon as people got used to 'em.\nSo he's putting up these houses.\"\n\n\"Is he getting miserly in his old age?\"\n\n\"Hardly! Look what he gave Sydney and Amelia!\"\n\n\"I don't mean he's a miser, of course,\" said George. \"Heaven knows\nhe's liberal enough with mother and me; but why on earth didn't he sell\nsomething or other rather than do a thing like this?\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact,\" Amberson returned coolly, \"I believe he has sold\nsomething or other, from time to time.\"\n\n\"Well, in heaven's name,\" George cried, \"what did he do it for?\"\n\n\"To get money,\" his uncle mildly replied. \"That's my deduction.\"\n\n\"I suppose you're joking--or trying to!\"\n\n\"That's the best way to look at it,\" Amberson said amiably. \"Take the\nwhole thing as a joke--and in the meantime, if you haven't had your\nbreakfast--\"\n\n\"I haven't!\"\n\n\"Then if I were you I'd go in and gets some. And\"--he paused, becoming\nserious--\"and if I were you I wouldn't say anything to your grandfather\nabout this.\"\n\n\"I don't think I could trust myself to speak to him about it,\" said\nGeorge. \"I want to treat him respectfully, because he is my grandfather,\nbut I don't believe I could if I talked to him about such a thing as\nthis!\"\n\nAnd with a gesture of despair, plainly signifying that all too soon\nafter leaving bright college years behind him he had entered into the\nfull tragedy of life, George turned bitterly upon his heel and went into\nthe house for his breakfast.\n\nHis uncle, with his head whimsically upon one side, gazed after him not\naltogether unsympathetically, then descended again into the excavation\nwhence he had lately emerged. Being a philosopher he was not surprised,\nthat afternoon, in the course of a drive he took in the old carriage\nwith the Major, when, George was encountered upon the highway, flashing\nalong in his runabout with Lucy beside him and Pendennis doing better\nthan three minutes.\n\n\"He seems to have recovered,\" Amberson remarked: \"Looks in the highest\ngood spirits.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon.\"\n\n\"Your grandson,\" Amberson explained. \"He was inclined to melancholy this\nmorning, but seemed jolly enough just now when they passed us.\"\n\n\"What was he melancholy about? Not getting remorseful about all the\nmoney he's spent at college, was he?\" The Major chuckled feebly, but\nwith sufficient grimness. \"I wonder what he thinks I'm made of,\" he\nconcluded querulously.\n\n\"Gold,\" his son suggested, adding gently, \"And he's right about part of\nyou, father.\"\n\n\"What part?\"\n\n\"Your heart.\"\n\nThe Major laughed ruefully. \"I suppose that may account for how heavy\nit feels, sometimes, nowadays. This town seems to be rolling right over\nthat old heart you mentioned, George--rolling over it and burying\nit under! When I think of those devilish workmen digging up my lawn,\nyelling around my house--\"\n\n\"Never mind, father. Don't think of it. When things are a nuisance it's\na good idea not to keep remembering 'em.\"\n\n\"I try not to,\" the old gentleman murmured. \"I try to keep remembering\nthat I won't be remembering anything very long.\" And, somehow convinced\nthat this thought was a mirthful one, he laughed loudly, and slapped his\nknee. \"Not so very long now, my boy!\" he chuckled, continuing to echo\nhis own amusement. \"Not so very long. Not so very long!\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII\n\n\n\nYoung George paid his respects to his grandfather the following morning,\nhaving been occupied with various affairs and engagements on Sunday\nuntil after the Major's bedtime; and topics concerned with building\nor excavations were not introduced into the conversation, which was a\ncheerful one until George lightly mentioned some new plans of his. He\nwas a skillful driver, as the Major knew, and he spoke of his desire to\nextend his proficiency in this art: in fact, be entertained the ambition\nto drive a four-in-hand. However, as the Major said nothing, and merely\nsat still, looking surprised, George went on to say that he did not\npropose to \"go in for coaching just at the start\"; he thought it would\nbe better to begin with a tandem. He was sure Pendennis could be trained\nto work as a leader; and all that one needed to buy at present, he said,\nwould be \"comparatively inexpensive--a new trap, and the harness,\nof course, and a good bay to match Pendennis.\" He did not care for a\nspecial groom; one of the stablemen would do.\n\nAt this point the Major decided to speak. \"You say one of the stablemen\nwould do?\" he inquired, his widened eyes remaining fixed upon his\ngrandson. \"That's lucky, because one's all there is, just at present,\nGeorge. Old fat Tom does it all. Didn't you notice, when you took\nPendennis out, yesterday?\"\n\n\"Oh, that will be all right, sir. My mother can lend me her man.\"\n\n\"Can she?\" The old gentleman smiled faintly. \"I wonder--\" He paused.\n\n\"What, sir?\"\n\n\"Whether you mightn't care to go to law-school somewhere perhaps. I'd be\nglad to set aside a sum that would see you through.\"\n\nThis senile divergence from the topic in hand surprised George\npainfully. \"I have no interest whatever in the law,\" he said. \"I don't\ncare for it, and the idea of being a professional man has never appealed\nto me. None of the family has ever gone in for that sort of thing, to my\nknowledge, and I don't care to be the first. I was speaking of driving a\ntandem--\"\n\n\"I know you were,\" the Major said quietly.\n\nGeorge looked hurt. \"I beg your pardon. Of course if the idea doesn't\nappeal to you--\" And he rose to go.\n\nThe Major ran a tremulous hand through his hair, sighing deeply. \"I--I\ndon't like to refuse you anything, Georgie,\" he said. \"I don't know that\nI often have refused you whatever you wanted--in reason--\"\n\n\"You've always been more than generous, sir,\" George interrupted\nquickly. \"And if the idea of a tandem doesn't appeal to you, why--of\ncourse--\" And he waved his hand, heroically dismissing the tandem.\n\nThe Major's distress became obvious. \"Georgie, I'd like to, but--but\nI've an idea tandems are dangerous to drive, and your mother might be\nanxious. She--\"\n\n\"No, sir; I think not. She felt it would be rather a good thing--help to\nkeep me out in the open air. But if perhaps your finances--\"\n\n\"Oh, it isn't that so much,\" the old gentleman said hurriedly. \"I wasn't\nthinking of that altogether.\" He laughed uncomfortably. \"I guess we\ncould still afford a new horse or two, if need be--\"\n\n\"I thought you said--\"\n\nThe Major waved his hand airily. \"Oh, a few retrenchments where\nthings were useless; nothing gained by a raft of idle darkies in the\nstable--nor by a lot of extra land that might as well be put to work for\nus in rentals. And if you want this thing so very much--\"\n\n\"It's not important enough to bother about, really, of course.\"\n\n\"Well, let's wait till autumn then,\" said the Major in a tone of relief.\n\"We'll see about it in the autumn, if you're still in the mind for it\nthen. That will be a great deal better. You remind me of it, along in\nSeptember--or October. We'll see what can be done.\" He rubbed his hands\ncheerfully. \"We'll see what can be done about it then, Georgie. We'll\nsee.\"\n\nAnd George, in reporting this conversation to his mother, was ruefully\nhumorous. \"In fact, the old boy cheered up so much,\" he told her, \"you'd\nhave thought he'd got a real load off his mind. He seemed to think he'd\nfixed me up perfectly, and that I was just as good as driving a tandem\naround his library right that minute! Of course I know he's anything but\nmiserly; still I can't help thinking he must be salting a lot of money\naway. I know prices are higher than they used to be, but he doesn't\nspend within thousands of what he used to, and we certainly can't be\nspending more than we always have spent. Where does it all go to? Uncle\nGeorge told me grandfather had sold some pieces of property, and it\nlooks a little queer. If he's really 'property poor,' of course we ought\nto be more saving than we are, and help him out. I don't mind giving\nup a tandem if it seems a little too expensive just now. I'm perfectly\nwilling to live quietly till he gets his bank balance where he wants it.\nBut I have a faint suspicion, not that he's getting miserly--not that at\nall--but that old age has begun to make him timid about money. There's\nno doubt about it, he's getting a little queer: he can't keep his mind\non a subject long. Right in the middle of talking about one thing he'll\nwander off to something else; and I shouldn't be surprised if he turned\nout to be a lot better off than any of us guess. It's entirely possible\nthat whatever he's sold just went into government bonds, or even his\nsafety deposit box. There was a friend of mine in college had an old\nuncle like that: made the whole family think he was poor as dirt--and\nthen left seven millions. People get terribly queer as they get old,\nsometimes, and grandfather certainly doesn't act the way he used to. He\nseems to be a totally different man. For instance, he said he thought\ntandem driving might be dangerous--\"\n\n\"Did he?\" Isabel asked quickly. \"Then I'm glad he doesn't want you to\nhave one. I didn't dream--\"\n\n\"But it's not. There isn't the slightest--\"\n\nIsabel had a bright idea. \"Georgie! Instead of a tandem wouldn't it\ninterest you to get one of Eugene's automobiles?\"\n\n\"I don't think so. They're fast enough, of course. In fact, running\none of those things is getting to be quite on the cards for sport, and\npeople go all over the country in 'em. But they're dirty things, and\nthey keep getting out of order, so that you're always lying down on your\nback in the mud, and--\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" she interrupted eagerly. \"Haven't you noticed? You don't see\nnearly so many people doing that nowadays as you did two or three years\nago, and, when you do, Eugene says it's apt to be one of the older\npatterns. The way they make them now, you can get at most of the\nmachinery from the top. I do think you'd be interested, dear.\"\n\nGeorge remained indifferent. \"Possibly--but I hardly think so. I know a\nlot of good people are really taking them up, but still--\"\n\n\"But still' what?\" she said as he paused.\n\n\"But still--well, I suppose I'm a little old-fashioned and fastidious,\nbut I'm afraid being a sort of engine driver never will appeal to\nme, mother. It's exciting, and I'd like that part of it, but still it\ndoesn't seem to me precisely the thing a gentleman ought to do. Too much\noveralls and monkey-wrenches and grease!\"\n\n\"But Eugene says people are hiring mechanics to do all that sort of\nthing for them. They're beginning to have them just the way they have\ncoachmen; and he says it's developing into quite a profession.\"\n\n\"I know that, mother, of course; but I've seen some of these mechanics,\nand they're not very satisfactory. For one thing, most of them only\npretend to understand the machinery and they let people break down a\nhundred miles from nowhere, so that about all these fellows are good\nfor is to hunt up a farmer and hire a horse to pull the automobile. And\nfriends of mine at college that've had a good deal of experience tell me\nthe mechanics who do understand the engines have no training at all as\nservants. They're awful! They say anything they like, and usually speak\nto members of the family as 'Say!' No, I believe I'd rather wait for\nSeptember and a tandem, mother.\"\n\nNevertheless, George sometimes consented to sit in an automobile, while\nwaiting for September, and he frequently went driving in one of Eugene's\ncars with Lucy and her father. He even allowed himself to be escorted\nwith his mother and Fanny through the growing factory, which was now, as\nthe foreman of the paint shop informed the visitors, \"turning out a car\nand a quarter a day.\" George had seldom been more excessively bored, but\nhis mother showed a lively interest in everything, wishing to have\nall the machinery explained to her. It was Lucy who did most of the\nexplaining, while her father looked on and laughed at the mistakes she\nmade, and Fanny remained in the background with George, exhibiting a\nbleakness that overmatched his boredom.\n\nFrom the factory Eugene took them to lunch at a new restaurant, just\nopened in the town, a place which surprised Isabel with its metropolitan\nair, and, though George made fun of it to her, in a whisper, she offered\neverything the tribute of pleased exclamations; and her gayety helped\nEugene's to make the little occasion almost a festive one.\n\nGeorge's ennui disappeared in spite of himself, and he laughed to see\nhis mother in such spirits. \"I didn't know mineral waters could go to\na person's head,\" he said. \"Or perhaps it's this place. It might pay to\nhave a new restaurant opened somewhere in town every time you get the\nblues.\"\n\nFanny turned to him with a wan smile. \"Oh, she doesn't 'get the blues,'\nGeorge!\" Then she added, as if fearing her remark might be thought\nunpleasantly significant, \"I never knew a person of a more even\ndisposition. I wish I could be like that!\" And though the tone of\nthis afterthought was not so enthusiastic as she tried to make it, she\nsucceeded in producing a fairly amiable effect.\n\n\"No,\" Isabel said, reverting to George's remark, and overlooking\nFanny's. \"What makes me laugh so much at nothing is Eugene's factory.\nWouldn't anybody be delighted to see an old friend take an idea out of\nthe air like that--an idea that most people laughed at him for--wouldn't\nany old friend of his be happy to see how he'd made his idea into such\na splendid, humming thing as that factory--all shiny steel, clicking and\nbuzzing away, and with all those workmen, such muscled looking men and\nyet so intelligent looking?\"\n\n\"Hear! Hear!\" George applauded. \"We seem to have a lady orator among us.\nI hope the waiters won't mind.\"\n\nIsabel laughed, not discouraged. \"It's beautiful to see such a thing,\"\nshe said. \"It makes us all happy, dear old Eugene!\"\n\nAnd with a brave gesture she stretched out her hand to him across the\nsmall table. He took it quickly, giving her a look in which his laughter\ntried to remain, but vanished before a gratitude threatening to become\nemotional in spite of him. Isabel, however, turned instantly to Fanny.\n\"Give him your hand, Fanny,\" she said gayly; and, as Fanny mechanically\nobeyed, \"There!\" Isabel cried. \"If brother George were here, Eugene\nwould have his three oldest and best friends congratulating him all at\nonce. We know what brother George thinks about it, though. It's just\nbeautiful, Eugene!\"\n\nProbably if her brother George had been with them at the little table,\nhe would have made known what he thought about herself, for it must\ninevitably have struck him that she was in the midst of one of those\n\"times\" when she looked \"exactly fourteen years old.\" Lucy served as\na proxy for Amberson, perhaps, when she leaned toward George and\nwhispered: \"Did you ever see anything so lovely?\"\n\n\"As what?\" George inquired, not because he misunderstood, but because he\nwished to prolong the pleasant neighbourliness of whispering.\n\n\"As your mother! Think of her doing that! She's a darling! And\npapa\"--here she imperfectly repressed a tendency to laugh--\"papa looks\nas if he were either going to explode or utter loud sobs!\"\n\nEugene commanded his features, however, and they resumed their customary\napprehensiveness. \"I used to write verse,\" he said--\"if you remember--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Isabel interrupted gently. \"I remember.\"\n\n\"I don't recall that I've written any for twenty years or so,\" he\ncontinued. \"But I'm almost thinking I could do it again, to thank you\nfor making a factory visit into such a kind celebration.\"\n\n\"Gracious!\" Lucy whispered, giggling. \"Aren't they sentimental\"\n\n\"People that age always are,\" George returned. \"They get sentimental\nover anything at all. Factories or restaurants, it doesn't matter what!\"\n\nAnd both of them were seized with fits of laughter which they managed\nto cover under the general movement of departure, as Isabel had risen to\ngo.\n\nOutside, upon the crowded street, George helped Lucy into his runabout,\nand drove off, waving triumphantly, and laughing at Eugene who was\nstruggling with the engine of his car, in the tonneau of which Isabel\nand Fanny had established themselves. \"Looks like a hand-organ man\ngrinding away for pennies,\" said George, as the runabout turned the\ncorner and into National Avenue. \"I'll still take a horse, any day.\"\n\nHe was not so cocksure, half an hour later, on an open road, when a\nsiren whistle wailed behind him, and before the sound had died away,\nEugene's car, coming from behind with what seemed fairly like one\nlong leap, went by the runabout and dwindled almost instantaneously in\nperspective, with a lace handkerchief in a black-gloved hand fluttering\nsweet derision as it was swept onward into minuteness--a mere white\nspeck--and then out of sight.\n\nGeorge was undoubtedly impressed. \"Your Father does know how to drive\nsome,\" the dashing exhibition forced him to admit. \"Of course Pendennis\nisn't as young as he was, and I don't care to push him too hard. I\nwouldn't mind handling one of those machines on the road like that,\nmyself, if that was all there was to it--no cranking to do, or fooling\nwith the engine. Well, I enjoyed part of that lunch quite a lot, Lucy.\"\n\n\"The salad?\"\n\n\"No. Your whispering to me.\"\n\n\"Blarney!\"\n\nGeorge made no response, but checked Pendennis to a walk. Whereupon Lucy\nprotested quickly: \"Oh, don't!\"\n\n\"Why? Do you want him to trot his legs off?\"\n\n\"No, but--\"\n\n\"No, but'--what?\"\n\nShe spoke with apparent gravity: \"I know when you make him walk it's so\nyou can give all your attention to--to proposing to me again!\"\n\nAnd as she turned a face of exaggerated color to him, \"By the Lord, but\nyou're a little witch!\" George cried.\n\n\"George, do let Pendennis trot again!\"\n\n\"I won't!\"\n\nShe clucked to the horse. \"Get up, Pendennis! Trot! Go on! Commence!\"\n\nPendennis paid no attention; she meant nothing to him, and George\nlaughed at her fondly. \"You are the prettiest thing in this world,\nLucy!\" he exclaimed. \"When I see you in winter, in furs, with your\ncheeks red, I think you're prettiest then, but when I see you in summer,\nin a straw hat and a shirtwaist and a duck skirt and white gloves and\nthose little silver buckled slippers, and your rose-coloured parasol,\nand your cheeks not red but with a kind of pinky glow about them, then I\nsee I must have been wrong about the winter! When are you going to drop\nthe 'almost' and say we're really engaged?\"\n\n\"Oh, not for years! So there's the answer, and Let's trot again.\"\n\nBut George was persistent; moreover, he had become serious during the\nlast minute or two. \"I want to know,\" he said. \"I really mean it.\"\n\n\"Let's don't be serious, George,\" she begged him hopefully. \"Let's talk\nof something pleasant.\"\n\nHe was a little offended. \"Then it isn't pleasant for you to know that I\nwant to marry you?\"\n\nAt this she became as serious as he could have asked; she looked down,\nand her lip quivered like that of a child about to cry. Suddenly she put\nher hand upon one of his for just an instant, and then withdrew it.\n\n\"Lucy!\" he said huskily. \"Dear, what's the matter? You look as if\nyou were going to cry. You always do that,\" he went on plaintively,\n\"whenever I can get you to talk about marrying me.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Well, why do you?\"\n\nHer eyelids flickered, and then she looked up at him with a sad gravity,\ntears seeming just at the poise. \"One reason's because I have a feeling\nthat it's never going to be.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"It's just a feeling.\"\n\n\"You haven't any reason or--\"\n\n\"It's just a feeling.\"\n\n\"Well, if that's all,\" George said, reassured, and laughing confidently,\n\"I guess I won't be very much troubled!\" But at once he became serious\nagain, adopting the tone of argument. \"Lucy, how is anything ever going\nto get a chance to come of it, so long as you keep sticking to 'almost'?\nDoesn't it strike you as unreasonable to have a 'feeling' that we'll\nnever be married, when what principally stands between us is the fact\nthat you won't be really engaged to me? That does seem pretty absurd!\nDon't you care enough about me to marry me?\"\n\nShe looked down again, pathetically troubled. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"Won't you always care that much about me?\"\n\n\"I'm--yes--I'm afraid so, George. I never do change much about\nanything.\"\n\n\"Well, then, why in the world won't you drop the 'almost'?\"\n\nHer distress increased. \"Everything is--everything--\"\n\n\"What about 'everything'?\"\n\n\"Everything is so--so unsettled.\"\n\nAnd at that he uttered an exclamation of impatience. \"If you aren't the\nqueerest girl! What is 'unsettled'?\"\n\n\"Well, for one thing,\" she said, able to smile at his vehemence, \"you\nhaven't settled on anything to do. At least, if you have you've never\nspoken of it.\"\n\nAs she spoke, she gave him the quickest possible side glance of hopeful\nscrutiny; then looked away, not happily. Surprise and displeasure were\nintentionally visible upon the countenance of her companion; and he\npermitted a significant period of silence to elapse before making any\nresponse. \"Lucy,\" he said, finally, with cold dignity, \"I should like to\nask you a few questions.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"The first is: Haven't you perfectly well understood that I don't mean\nto go into business or adopt a profession?\"\n\n\"I wasn't quite sure,\" she said gently. \"I really didn't know--quite.\"\n\n\"Then of course it's time I did tell you. I never have been able to see\nany occasion for a man's going into trade, or being a lawyer, or any of\nthose things if his position and family were such that he didn't need\nto. You know, yourself, there are a lot of people in the East--in the\nSouth, too, for that matter--that don't think we've got any particular\nfamily or position or culture in this part of the country. I've met\nplenty of that kind of provincial snobs myself, and they're pretty\ngalling. There were one or two men in my crowd at college, their\nfamilies had lived on their income for three generations, and they never\ndreamed there was anybody in their class out here. I had to show them\na thing or two, right at the start, and I guess they won't forget it!\nWell, I think it's time all their sort found out that three generations\ncan mean just as much out here as anywhere else. That's the way I feel\nabout it, and let me tell you I feel it pretty deeply!\"\n\n\"But what are you going to do, George?\" she cried.\n\nGeorge's earnestness surpassed hers; he had become flushed and his\nbreathing was emotional. As he confessed, with simple genuineness, he\ndid feel what he was saying \"pretty deeply\"; and in truth his state\napproached the tremulous. \"I expect to live an honourable life,\" he\nsaid. \"I expect to contribute my share to charities, and to take part\nin--in movements.\"\n\n\"What kind?\"\n\n\"Whatever appeals to me,\" he said.\n\nLucy looked at him with grieved wonder. \"But you really don't mean to\nhave any regular business or profession at all?\"\n\n\"I certainly do not!\" George returned promptly and emphatically.\n\n\"I was afraid so,\" she said in a low voice.\n\nGeorge continued to breathe deeply throughout another protracted\ninterval of silence. Then he said, \"I should like to revert to the\nquestions I was asking you, if you don't mind.\"\n\n\"No, George. I think we'd better--\"\n\n\"Your father is a business man--\"\n\n\"He's a mechanical genius,\" Lucy interrupted quickly. \"Of course he's\nboth. And he was a lawyer once--he's done all sorts of things.\"\n\n\"Very well. I merely wished to ask if it's his influence that makes you\nthink I ought to 'do' something?\"\n\nLucy frowned slightly. \"Why, I suppose almost everything I think or say\nmust be owing to his influence in one way or another. We haven't had\nanybody but each other for so many years, and we always think about\nalike, so of course--\"\n\n\"I see!\" And George's brow darkened with resentment. \"So that's it, is\nit? It's your father's idea that I ought to go into business and that\nyou oughtn't to be engaged to me until I do.\"\n\nLucy gave a start, her denial was so quick. \"No! I've never once spoken\nto him about it. Never!\"\n\nGeorge looked at her keenly, and he jumped to a conclusion not far from\nthe truth. \"But you know without talking to him that it's the way he\ndoes feel about it? I see.\"\n\nShe nodded gravely. \"Yes.\"\n\nGeorge's brow grew darker still. \"Do you think I'd be much of a man,\" he\nsaid, slowly, \"if I let any other man dictate to me my own way of life?\"\n\n\"George! Who's 'dictating' your--\"\n\n\"It seems to me it amounts to that!\" he returned.\n\n\"Oh, no! I only know how papa thinks about things. He's never, never\nspoken unkindly, or 'dictatingly' of you.\" She lifted her hand in\nprotest, and her face was so touching in its distress that for the\nmoment George forgot his anger. He seized that small, troubled hand.\n\n\"Lucy,\" he said huskily. \"Don't you know that I love you?\"\n\n\"Yes--I do.\"\n\n\"Don't you love me?\"\n\n\"Yes--I do.\"\n\n\"Then what does it matter what your father thinks about my doing\nsomething or not doing anything? He has his way, and I have mine. I\ndon't believe in the whole world scrubbing dishes and selling potatoes\nand trying law cases. Why, look at your father's best friend, my Uncle\nGeorge Amberson--he's never done anything in his life, and--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, he has,\" she interrupted. \"He was in politics.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm glad he's out,\" George said. \"Politics is a dirty business\nfor a gentleman, and Uncle George would tell you that himself. Lucy,\nlet's not talk any more about it. Let me tell mother when I get home\nthat we're engaged. Won't you, dear?\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"Is it because--\"\n\nFor a fleeting instant she touched to her cheek the hand that held hers.\n\"No,\" she said, and gave him a sudden little look of renewed gayety.\n\"Let's let it stay 'almost'.\"\n\n\"Because your father--\"\n\n\"Oh, because it's better!\"\n\nGeorge's voice shook. \"Isn't it your father?\"\n\n\"It's his ideals I'm thinking of--yes.\"\n\nGeorge dropped her hand abruptly and anger narrowed his eyes. \"I know\nwhat you mean,\" he said. \"I dare say I don't care for your father's\nideals any more than he does for mine!\"\n\nHe tightened the reins, Pendennis quickening eagerly to the trot; and\nwhen George jumped out of the runabout before Lucy's gate, and assisted\nher to descend, the silence in which they parted was the same that had\nbegun when Pendennis began to trot.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII\n\n\n\nThat evening, after dinner, George sat with his mother and his Aunt\nFanny upon the veranda. In former summers, when they sat outdoors in the\nevening, they had customarily used an open terrace at the side of the\nhouse, looking toward the Major's, but that more private retreat now\nafforded too blank and abrupt a view of the nearest of the new houses;\nso, without consultation, they had abandoned it for the Romanesque stone\nstructure in front, an oppressive place.\n\nIts oppression seemed congenial to George; he sat upon the copestone of\nthe stone parapet, his back against a stone pilaster; his attitude not\ncomfortable, but rigid, and his silence not comfortable, either, but\nheavy. However, to the eyes of his mother and his aunt, who occupied\nwicker chairs at a little distance, he was almost indistinguishable\nexcept for the stiff white shield of his evening frontage.\n\n\"It's so nice of you always to dress in the evening, Georgie,\" his\nmother said, her glance resting upon this surface. \"Your Uncle George\nalways used to, and so did father, for years; but they both stopped\nquite a long time ago. Unless there's some special occasion, it seems\nto me we don't see it done any more, except on the stage and in the\nmagazines.\"\n\nHe made no response, and Isabel, after waiting a little while, as if she\nexpected one, appeared to acquiesce in his mood for silence, and turned\nher head to gaze thoughtfully out at the street.\n\nThere, in the highway, the evening life of the Midland city had begun.\nA rising moon was bright upon the tops of the shade trees, where their\nbranches met overhead, arching across the street, but only filtered\nsplashings of moonlight reached the block pavement below; and through\nthis darkness flashed the firefly lights of silent bicycles gliding by\nin pairs and trios--or sometimes a dozen at a time might come, and not\nso silent, striking their little bells; the riders' voices calling and\nlaughing; while now and then a pair of invisible experts would pass,\nplaying mandolin and guitar as if handle-bars were of no account in the\nworld--their music would come swiftly, and then too swiftly die away.\nSurreys rumbled lightly by, with the plod-plod of honest old horses, and\nfrequently there was the glitter of whizzing spokes from a runabout or\na sporting buggy, and the sharp, decisive hoof-beats of a trotter. Then,\nlike a cowboy shooting up a peaceful camp, a frantic devil would hurtle\nout of the distance, bellowing, exhaust racketing like a machine gun\ngone amuck--and at these horrid sounds the surreys and buggies would\nhug the curbstone, and the bicycles scatter to cover, cursing; while\nchildren rushed from the sidewalks to drag pet dogs from the street.\nThe thing would roar by, leaving a long wake of turbulence; then the\nindignant street would quiet down for a few minutes--till another came.\n\n\"There are a great many more than there used to be,\" Miss Fanny\nobserved, in her lifeless voice, as the lull fell after one of these\nvisitations. \"Eugene is right about that; there seem to be at least\nthree or four times as many as there were last summer, and you never\nhear the ragamuffins shouting 'Get a horse!' nowadays; but I think he\nmay be mistaken about their going on increasing after this. I don't\nbelieve we'll see so many next summer as we do now.\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Isabel.\n\n\"Because I've begun to agree with George about their being more a fad\nthan anything else, and I think it must be the height of the fad just\nnow. You know how roller-skating came in--everybody in the world seemed\nto be crowding to the rinks--and now only a few children use rollers for\ngetting to school. Besides, people won't permit the automobiles to be\nused. Really, I think they'll make laws against them. You see how they\nspoil the bicycling and the driving; people just seem to hate them!\nThey'll never stand it--never in the world! Of course I'd be sorry to\nsee such a thing happen to Eugene, but I shouldn't be really surprised\nto see a law passed forbidding the sale of automobiles, just the way\nthere is with concealed weapons.\"\n\n\"Fanny!\" exclaimed her sister-in-law. \"You're not in earnest?\"\n\n\"I am, though!\"\n\nIsabel's sweet-toned laugh came out of the dusk where she sat. \"Then\nyou didn't mean it when you told Eugene you'd enjoyed the drive this\nafternoon?\"\n\n\"I didn't say it so very enthusiastically, did I?\"\n\n\"Perhaps not, but he certainly thought he'd pleased you.\"\n\n\"I don't think I gave him any right to think he'd pleased me\" Fanny said\nslowly.\n\n\"Why not? Why shouldn't you, Fanny?\"\n\nFanny did not reply at once, and when she did, her voice was almost\ninaudible, but much more reproachful than plaintive. \"I hardly think I'd\nwant any one to get the notion he'd pleased me just now. It hardly seems\ntime, yet--to me.\"\n\nIsabel made no response, and for a time the only sound upon the dark\nveranda was the creaking of the wicker rocking-chair in which Fanny\nsat--a creaking which seemed to denote content and placidity on the\npart of the chair's occupant, though at this juncture a series of human\nshrieks could have been little more eloquent of emotional disturbance.\nHowever, the creaking gave its hearer one great advantage: it could be\nignored.\n\n\"Have you given up smoking, George?\" Isabel asked presently.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I hoped perhaps you had, because you've not smoked since dinner. We\nshan't mind if you care to.\"\n\n\"No, thanks.\"\n\nThere was silence again, except for the creaking of the rocking-chair;\nthen a low, clear whistle, singularly musical, was heard softly\nrendering an old air from \"Fra Diavolo.\" The creaking stopped.\n\n\"Is that you, George?\" Fanny asked abruptly.\n\n\"Is that me what?\"\n\n\"Whistling 'On Yonder Rock Reclining'?\"\n\n\"It's I,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Oh,\" Fanny said dryly.\n\n\"Does it disturb you?\"\n\n\"Not at all. I had an idea George was depressed about something, and\nmerely wondered if he could be making such a cheerful sound.\" And Fanny\nresumed her creaking.\n\n\"Is she right, George?\" his mother asked quickly, leaning forward in\nher chair to peer at him through the dusk. \"You didn't eat a very hearty\ndinner, but I thought it was probably because of the warm weather. Are\nyou troubled about anything?\"\n\n\"No!\" he said angrily.\n\n\"That's good. I thought we had such a nice day, didn't you?\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" he muttered, and, satisfied, she leaned back in her\nchair; but \"Fra Diavolo\" was not revived. After a time she rose, went to\nthe steps, and stood for several minutes looking across the street. Then\nher laughter was faintly heard.\n\n\"Are you laughing about something?\" Fanny inquired.\n\n\"Pardon?\" Isabel did not turn, but continued her observation of what had\ninterested her upon the opposite side of the street.\n\n\"I asked: Were you laughing at something?\"\n\n\"Yes, I was!\" And she laughed again. \"It's that funny, fat old Mrs.\nJohnson. She has a habit of sitting at her bedroom window with a pair of\nopera-glasses.\"\n\n\"Really!\"\n\n\"Really. You can see the window through the place that was left when we\nhad the dead walnut tree cut down. She looks up and down the street, but\nmostly at father's and over here. Sometimes she forgets to put out the\nlight in her room, and there she is, spying away for all the world to\nsee!\"\n\nHowever, Fanny made no effort to observe this spectacle, but continued\nher creaking. \"I've always thought her a very good woman,\" she said\nprimly.\n\n\"So she is,\" Isabel agreed. \"She's a good, friendly old thing, a little\ntoo intimate in her manner, sometimes, and if her poor old opera-glasses\nafford her the quiet happiness of knowing what sort of young man our new\ncook is walking out with, I'm the last to begrudge it to her! Don't you\nwant to come and look at her, George?\"\n\n\"What? I beg your pardon. I hadn't noticed what you were talking about.\"\n\n\"It's nothing,\" she laughed. \"Only a funny old lady--and she's gone now.\nI'm going, too--at least, I'm going indoors to read. It's cooler in the\nhouse, but the heat's really not bad anywhere, since nightfall. Summer's\ndying. How quickly it goes, once it begins to die.\"\n\nWhen she had gone into the house, Fanny stopped rocking, and, leaning\nforward, drew her black gauze wrap about her shoulders and shivered.\n\"Isn't it queer,\" she said drearily, \"how your mother can use such\nwords?\"\n\n\"What words are you talking about?\" George asked.\n\n\"Words like 'die' and 'dying.' I don't see how she can bear to use them\nso soon after your poor father--\" She shivered again.\n\n\"It's almost a year,\" George said absently, and he added: \"It seems to\nme you're using them yourself.\"\n\n\"I? Never!\"\n\n\"Yes, you did.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Just this minute.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Fanny. \"You mean when I repeated what she said? That's hardly\nthe same thing, George.\"\n\nHe was not enough interested to argue the point. \"I don't think you'll\nconvince anybody that mother's unfeeling,\" he said indifferently.\n\n\"I'm not trying to convince anybody. I mean merely that in my\nopinion--well, perhaps it may be just as wise for me to keep my opinions\nto myself.\"\n\nShe paused expectantly, but her possible anticipation that George would\nurge her to discard wisdom and reveal her opinion was not fulfilled. His\nback was toward her, and he occupied himself with opinions of his own\nabout other matters. Fanny may have felt some disappointment as she rose\nto withdraw.\n\nHowever, at the last moment she halted with her hand upon the latch of\nthe screen door.\n\n\"There's one thing I hope,\" she said. \"I hope at least she won't leave\noff her full mourning on the very anniversary of Wilbur's death!\"\n\nThe light door clanged behind her, and the sound annoyed her nephew. He\nhad no idea why she thus used inoffensive wood and wire to dramatize her\ndeparture from the veranda, the impression remaining with him being that\nshe was critical of his mother upon some point of funeral millinery.\nThroughout the desultory conversation he had been profoundly concerned\nwith his own disturbing affairs, and now was preoccupied with a dialogue\ntaking place (in his mind) between himself and Miss Lucy Morgan. As he\nbeheld the vision, Lucy had just thrown herself at his feet. \"George,\nyou must forgive me!\" she cried. \"Papa was utterly wrong! I have told\nhim so, and the truth is that I have come to rather dislike him as\nyou do, and as you always have, in your heart of hearts. George, I\nunderstand you: thy people shall be my people and thy gods my gods.\nGeorge, won't you take me back?\"\n\n\"Lucy, are you sure you understand me?\" And in the darkness George's\nbodily lips moved in unison with those which uttered the words in his\nimaginary rendering of this scene. An eavesdropper, concealed behind\nthe column, could have heard the whispered word \"sure,\" the emphasis put\nupon it in the vision was so poignant. \"You say you understand me, but\nare you sure?\"\n\nWeeping, her head bowed almost to her waist, the ethereal Lucy made\nreply: \"Oh, so sure! I will never listen to father's opinions again. I\ndo not even care if I never see him again!\"\n\n\"Then I pardon you,\" he said gently.\n\nThis softened mood lasted for several moments--until he realized that\nit had been brought about by processes strikingly lacking in substance.\nAbruptly he swung his feet down from the copestone to the floor of the\nveranda. \"Pardon nothing!\" No meek Lucy had thrown herself in remorse\nat his feet; and now he pictured her as she probably really was at\nthis moment: sitting on the white steps of her own front porch in the\nmoonlight, with red-headed Fred Kinney and silly Charlie Johnson and\nfour or five others--all of them laughing, most likely, and some idiot\nplaying the guitar!\n\nGeorge spoke aloud: \"Riffraff!\"\n\nAnd because of an impish but all too natural reaction of the mind, he\ncould see Lucy with much greater distinctness in this vision than in his\nformer pleasing one. For a moment she was miraculously real before him,\nevery line and colour of her. He saw the moonlight shimmering in the\nchiffon of her skirts brightest on her crossed knee and the tip of her\nslipper; saw the blue curve of the characteristic shadow behind her,\nas she leaned back against the white step; saw the watery twinkling of\nsequins in the gauze wrap over her white shoulders as she moved, and\nthe faint, symmetrical lights in her black hair--and not one alluring,\nexasperating twentieth-of-an-inch of her laughing profile was spared him\nas she seemed to turn to the infernal Kinney--\n\n\"Riffraff!\" And George began furiously to pace the stone floor.\n\"Riffraff!\" By this hard term--a favourite with him since childhood's\nscornful hour--he meant to indicate, not Lucy, but the young gentlemen\nwho, in his vision, surrounded her. \"Riffraff!\" he said again, aloud,\nand again:\n\n\"Riffraff!\"\n\nAt that moment, as it happened, Lucy was playing chess with her father;\nand her heart, though not remorseful, was as heavy as George could have\nwished. But she did not let Eugene see that she was troubled, and he was\npleased when he won three games of her. Usually she beat him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIX\n\n\nGeorge went driving the next afternoon alone, and, encountering Lucy\nand her father on the road, in one of Morgan's cars, lifted his hat,\nbut nowise relaxed his formal countenance as they passed. Eugene waved\na cordial hand quickly returned to the steering-wheel; but Lucy only\nnodded gravely and smiled no more than George did. Nor did she accompany\nEugene to the Major's for dinner, the following Sunday evening, though\nboth were bidden to attend that feast, which was already reduced in\nnumbers and gayety by the absence of George Amberson. Eugene explained\nto his host that Lucy had gone away to visit a school-friend.\n\nThe information, delivered in the library, just before old Sam's\nappearance to announce dinner, set Miss Minafer in quite a flutter.\n\"Why, George!\" she said, turning to her nephew. \"How does it happen\nyou didn't tell us?\" And with both hands opening, as if to express her\ninnocence of some conspiracy, she exclaimed to the others, \"He's never\nsaid one word to us about Lucy's planning to go away!\"\n\n\"Probably afraid to,\" the Major suggested. \"Didn't know but he might\nbreak down and cry if he tried to speak of it!\" He clapped his grandson\non the shoulder, inquiring jocularly, \"That it, Georgie?\"\n\nGeorgie made no reply, but he was red enough to justify the Major's\ndeveloping a chuckle into laughter; though Miss Fanny, observing her\nnephew keenly, got an impression that this fiery blush was in truth more\nfiery than tender. She caught a glint in his eye less like confusion\nthan resentment, and saw a dilation of his nostrils which might have\nindicated not so much a sweet agitation as an inaudible snort. Fanny had\nnever been lacking in curiosity, and, since her brother's death, this\nquality was more than ever alert. The fact that George had spent all the\nevenings of the past week at home had not been lost upon her, nor had\nshe failed to ascertain, by diplomatic inquiries, that since the day of\nthe visit to Eugene's shops George had gone driving alone.\n\nAt the dinner-table she continued to observe him, sidelong; and toward\nthe conclusion of the meal she was not startled by an episode which\nbrought discomfort to the others. After the arrival of coffee the Major\nwas rallying Eugene upon some rival automobile shops lately built in a\nsuburb, and already promising to flourish.\n\n\"I suppose they'll either drive you out of the business,\" said the old\ngentleman, \"or else the two of you'll drive all the rest of us off the\nstreets.\"\n\n\"If we do, we'll even things up by making the streets five or ten times\nas long as they are now,\" Eugene returned.\n\n\"How do you propose to do that?\"\n\n\"It isn't the distance from the center of a town that counts,\" said\nEugene; \"it's the time it takes to get there. This town's already\nspreading; bicycles and trolleys have been doing their share, but the\nautomobile is going to carry city streets clear out to the county line.\"\n\nThe Major was skeptical. \"Dream on, fair son!\" he said. \"It's lucky for\nus that you're only dreaming; because if people go to moving that far,\nreal estate values in the old residence part of town are going to be\nstretched pretty thin.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so,\" Eugene assented. \"Unless you keep things so bright and\nclean that the old section will stay more attractive than the new ones.\"\n\n\"Not very likely! How are things going to be kept 'bright and clean'\nwith soft coal, and our kind of city government?\"\n\n\"They aren't,\" Eugene replied quickly. \"There's no hope of it, and\nalready the boarding-house is marching up National Avenue. There are\ntwo in the next block below here, and there are a dozen in the half-mile\nbelow that. My relatives, the Sharons, have sold their house and are\nbuilding in the country--at least, they call it 'the country.' It will\nbe city in two or three years.\"\n\n\"Good gracious!\" the Major exclaimed, affecting 'dismay. \"So your little\nshops are going to ruin all your old friends, Eugene!\"\n\n\"Unless my old friends take warning in time, or abolish smoke and get\na new kind of city government. I should say the best chance is to take\nWarning.\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" the Major laughed. \"You have enough faith in miracles,\nEugene--granting that trolleys and bicycles and automobiles are\nmiracles. So you think they're to change the face of the land, do you?\"\n\n\"They're already doing it, Major; and it can't be stopped.\nAutomobiles--\"\n\nAt this point he was interrupted. George was the interrupter. He had\nsaid nothing since entering the dining room, but now he spoke in a loud\nand peremptory voice, using the tone of one in authority who checks idle\nprattle and settles a matter forever.\n\n\"Automobiles are a useless nuisance,\" he said.\n\nThere fell a moment's silence.\n\nIsabel gazed incredulously at George, colour slowly heightening upon her\ncheeks and temples, while Fanny watched him with a quick eagerness, her\neyes alert and bright. But Eugene seemed merely quizzical, as if not\ntaking this brusquerie to himself. The Major was seriously disturbed.\n\n\"What did you say, George?\" he asked, though George had spoken but too\ndistinctly.\n\n\"I said all automobiles were a nuisance,\" George answered, repeating not\nonly the words but the tone in which he had uttered them. And he added,\n\"They'll never amount to anything but a nuisance. They had no business\nto be invented.\"\n\nThe Major frowned. \"Of course you forget that Mr. Morgan makes them, and\nalso did his share in inventing them. If you weren't so thoughtless he\nmight think you rather offensive.\"\n\n\"That would be too bad,\" said George coolly. \"I don't think I could\nsurvive it.\"\n\nAgain there was a silence, while the Major stared at his grandson,\naghast. But Eugene began to laugh cheerfully.\n\n\"I'm not sure he's wrong about automobiles,\" he said. \"With all their\nspeed forward they may be a step backward in civilization--that is, in\nspiritual civilization. It may be that they will not add to the beauty\nof the world, nor to the life of men's souls. I am not sure. But\nautomobiles have come, and they bring a greater change in our life than\nmost of us suspect. They are here, and almost all outward things are\ngoing to be different because of what they bring. They are going to\nalter war, and they are going to alter peace. I think men's minds are\ngoing to be changed in subtle ways because of automobiles; just how,\nthough, I could hardly guess. But you can't have the immense outward\nchanges that they will cause without some inward ones, and it may be\nthat George is right, and that the spiritual alteration will be bad\nfor us. Perhaps, ten or twenty years from now, if we can see the inward\nchange in men by that time, I shouldn't be able to defend the gasoline\nengine, but would have to agree with him that automobiles 'had no\nbusiness to be invented.'\" He laughed good-naturedly, and looking at\nhis watch, apologized for having an engagement which made his departure\nnecessary when he would so much prefer to linger. Then he shook\nhands with the Major, and bade Isabel, George, and Fanny a cheerful\ngood-night--a collective farewell cordially addressed to all three of\nthem together--and left them at the table.\n\nIsabel turned wondering, hurt eyes upon her son. \"George, dear!\" she\nsaid. \"What did you mean?\"\n\n\"Just what I said,\" he returned, lighting one of the Major's cigars, and\nhis manner was imperturbable enough to warrant the definition (sometimes\nmerited by imperturbability) of stubbornness.\n\nIsabel's hand, pale and slender, upon the tablecloth, touched one of the\nfine silver candlesticks aimlessly: the fingers were seen to tremble.\n\"Oh, he was hurt!\" she murmured.\n\n\"I don't see why he should be,\" George said. \"I didn't say anything\nabout him. He didn't seem to me to be hurt--seemed perfectly cheerful.\nWhat made you think he was hurt?\"\n\n\"I know him!\" was all of her reply, half whispered.\n\nThe Major stared hard at George from under his white eyebrows. \"You\ndidn't mean 'him,' you say, George? I suppose if we had a clergyman as\na guest here you'd expect him not to be offended, and to understand that\nyour remarks were neither personal nor untactful, if you said the church\nwas a nuisance and ought never to have been invented. By Jove, but\nyou're a puzzle!\"\n\n\"In what way, may I ask, sir?\"\n\n\"We seem to have a new kind of young people these days,\" the old\ngentleman returned, shaking his head. \"It's a new style of courting a\npretty girl, certainly, for a young fellow to go deliberately out of his\nway to try and make an enemy of her father by attacking his business! By\nJove! That's a new way to win a woman!\"\n\nGeorge flushed angrily and seemed about to offer a retort, but held\nhis breath for a moment; and then held his peace. It was Isabel who\nresponded to the Major. \"Oh, no!\" she said. \"Eugene would never be\nanybody's enemy--he couldn't!--and last of all Georgie's. I'm afraid he\nwas hurt, but I don't fear his not having understood that George spoke\nwithout thinking of what he was saying--I mean, with-out realizing its\nbearing on Eugene.\"\n\nAgain George seemed upon the point of speech, and again controlled the\nimpulse. He thrust his hands in his pockets, leaned back in his chair,\nand smoked, staring inflexibly at the ceiling.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said his grandfather, rising. \"It wasn't a very successful\nlittle dinner!\"\n\nThereupon he offered his arm to his daughter, who took it fondly, and\nthey left the room, Isabel assuring him that all his little dinners were\npleasant, and that this one was no exception.\n\nGeorge did not move, and Fanny, following the other two, came round the\ntable, and paused close beside his chair; but George remained posed in\nhis great imperturbability, cigar between teeth, eyes upon ceiling, and\npaid no attention to her. Fanny waited until the sound of Isabel's and\nthe Major's voices became inaudible in the hall. Then she said quickly,\nand in a low voice so eager that it was unsteady:\n\n\"George, you've struck just the treatment to adopt: you're doing the\nright thing!\"\n\nShe hurried out, scurrying after the others with a faint rustling of\nher black skirts, leaving George mystified but incurious. He did not\nunderstand why she should bestow her approbation upon him in the matter,\nand cared so little whether she did or not that he spared himself even\nthe trouble of being puzzled about it.\n\nIn truth, however, he was neither so comfortable nor so imperturbable as\nhe appeared. He felt some gratification: he had done a little to put\nthe man in his place--that man whose influence upon his daughter was\nprecisely the same thing as a contemptuous criticism of George Amberson\nMinafer, and of George Amberson Minafer's \"ideals of life.\" Lucy's going\naway without a word was intended, he supposed, as a bit of punishment.\nWell, he wasn't the sort of man that people were allowed to punish: he\ncould demonstrate that to them--since they started it!\n\nIt appeared to him as almost a kind of insolence, this abrupt\ndeparture--not even telephoning! Probably she wondered how he would take\nit; she even might have supposed he would show some betraying chagrin\nwhen he heard of it.\n\nHe had no idea that this was just what he had shown; and he was\nsatisfied with his evening's performance. Nevertheless, he was not\ncomfortable in his mind; though he could not have explained his inward\nperturbations, for he was convinced, without any confirmation from his\nAunt Fanny, that he had done \"just the right thing.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XX\n\n\n\nIsabel came to George's door that night, and when she had kissed him\ngood-night she remained in the open doorway with her hand upon his\nshoulder and her eyes thoughtfully lowered, so that her wish to say\nsomething more than good-night was evident. Not less obvious was her\nperplexity about the manner of saying it; and George, divining her\nthought, amiably made an opening for her.\n\n\"Well, old lady,\" he said indulgently, \"you needn't look so worried. I\nwon't be tactless with Morgan again. After this I'll just keep out of\nhis way.\"\n\nIsabel looked up, searching his face with the fond puzzlement which her\neyes sometimes showed when they rested upon him; then she glanced down\nthe hall toward Fanny's room, and, after another moment of hesitation,\ncame quickly in, and closed the door.\n\n\"Dear,\" she said, \"I wish you'd tell me something: Why don't you like\nEugene?\"\n\n\"Oh, I like him well enough,\" George returned, with a short laugh, as he\nsat down and began to unlace his shoes. \"I like him well enough--in his\nplace.\"\n\n\"No, dear,\" she said hurriedly. \"I've had a feeling from the very\nfirst that you didn't really like him--that you really never liked him.\nSometimes you've seemed to be friendly with him, and you'd laugh with\nhim over something in a jolly, companionable way, and I'd think I was\nwrong, and that you really did like him, after all; but to-night I'm\nsure my other feeling was the right one: you don't like him. I can't\nunderstand it, dear; I don't see what can be the matter.\"\n\n\"Nothing's the matter.\"\n\nThis easy declaration naturally failed to carry great weight, and Isabel\nwent on, in her troubled voice, \"It seems so queer, especially when you\nfeel as you do about his daughter.\"\n\nAt this, George stopped unlacing his shoes abruptly, and sat up. \"How do\nI feel about his daughter?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Well, it's seemed--as if--as if--\" Isabel began timidly. \"It did\nseem--At least, you haven't looked at any other girl, ever since they\ncame here and--and certainly you've seemed very much interested in her.\nCertainly you've been very great friends?\"\n\n\"Well, what of that?\"\n\n\"It's only that I'm like your grandfather: I can't see how you could be\nso much interested in a girl and--and not feel very pleasantly toward\nher father.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you something,\" George said slowly; and a frown of\nconcentration could be seen upon his brow, as from a profound effort at\nself-examination. \"I haven't ever thought much on that particular point,\nbut I admit there may be a little something in what you say. The truth\nis, I don't believe I've ever thought of the two together, exactly--at\nleast, not until lately. I've always thought of Lucy just as Lucy,\nand of Morgan just as Morgan. I've always thought of her as a\nperson herself, not as anybody's daughter. I don't see what's very\nextraordinary about that. You've probably got plenty of friends, for\ninstance, that don't care much about your son--\"\n\n\"No, indeed!\" she protested quickly. \"And if I knew anybody who felt\nlike that, I wouldn't--\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" he interrupted. \"I'll try to explain a little more. If\nI have a friend, I don't see that it's incumbent upon me to like that\nfriend's relatives. If I didn't like them, and pretended to, I'd be a\nhypocrite. If that friend likes me and wants to stay my friend 'he'll\nhave to stand my not liking his relatives, or else he can quit. I\ndecline to be a hypocrite about it; that's all. Now, suppose I have\ncertain ideas or ideals which I have chosen for the regulation of my own\nconduct in life. Suppose some friend of mine has a relative with ideals\ndirectly the opposite of mine, and my friend believes more in the\nrelative's ideals than in mine: Do you think I ought to give up my own\njust to please a person who's taken up ideals that I really despise?\"\n\n\"No, dear; of course people can't give up their ideals; but I don't see\nwhat this has to do with dear little Lucy and--\"\n\n\"I didn't say it had anything to do with them,\" he interrupted. \"I was\nmerely putting a case to show how a person would be justified in being\na friend of one member of a family, and feeling anything but friendly\ntoward another. I don't say, though, that I feel unfriendly to Mr.\nMorgan. I don't say that I feel friendly to him, and I don't say that\nI feel unfriendly; but if you really think that I was rude to him\nto-night--\"\n\n\"Just thoughtless, dear. You didn't see that what you said to-night--\"\n\n\"Well, I'll not say anything of that sort again where he can hear it.\nThere, isn't that enough?\"\n\nThis question, delivered with large indulgence, met with no response;\nfor Isabel, still searching his face with her troubled and perplexed\ngaze, seemed not to have heard it. On that account, George repeated it,\nand rising, went to her and patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder.\n\"There, old lady, you needn't fear my tactlessness will worry you again.\nI can't quite promise to like people I don't care about one way or\nanother, but you can be sure I'll be careful, after this, not to let\nthem see it. It's all right, and you'd better toddle along to bed,\nbecause I want to undress.\"\n\n\"But, George,\" she said earnestly, \"you would like him, if you'd just\nlet yourself. You say you don't dislike him. Why don't you like him? I\ncan't understand at all. What is it that you don't--\"\n\n\"There, there!\" he said. \"It's all right, and you toddle along.\"\n\n\"But, George, dear--\"\n\n\"Now, now! I really do want to get into bed. Good-night, old lady.\"\n\n\"Good-night, dear. But--\"\n\n\"Let's not talk of it any more,\" he said. \"It's all right, and nothing\nin the world to worry about. So good-night, old lady. I'll be polite\nenough to him, never fear--if we happen to be thrown together. So\ngood-night!\"\n\n\"But, George, dear--\"\n\n\"I'm going to bed, old lady; so good-night.\"'\n\nThus the interview closed perforce. She kissed him again before going\nslowly to her own room, her perplexity evidently not dispersed; but the\nsubject was not renewed between them the next day or subsequently. Nor\ndid Fanny make any allusion to the cryptic approbation she had bestowed\nupon her nephew after the Major's \"not very successful little dinner\";\nthough she annoyed George by looking at him oftener and longer than\nhe cared to be looked at by an aunt. He could not glance her way, it\nseemed, without finding her red-rimmed eyes fixed upon him eagerly, with\nan alert and hopeful calculation in them which he declared would send a\nnervous man, into fits. For thus, one day, he broke out, in protest:\n\n\"It would!\" he repeated vehemently. \"Given time it would--straight into\nfits! What do you find the matter with me? Is my tie always slipping up\nbehind? Can't you look at something else? My Lord! We'd better buy a cat\nfor you to stare at, Aunt Fanny! A cat could stand it, maybe. What in\nthe name of goodness do you expect to see?\"\n\nBut Fanny laughed good-naturedly, and was not offended. \"It's more as\nif I expected you to see something, isn't it?\" she said quietly, still\nlaughing.\n\n\"Now, what do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"Never mind!\"\n\n\"All right, I don't. But for heaven's sake stare at somebody else\nawhile. Try it on the house-maid!\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" Fanny said indulgently, and then chose to be more obscure\nin her meaning than ever, for she adopted a tone of deep sympathy for\nher final remark, as she left him: \"I don't wonder you're nervous these\ndays, poor boy!\"\n\nAnd George indignantly supposed that she referred to the ordeal of\nLucy's continued absence. During this period he successfully avoided\ncontact with Lucy's father, though Eugene came frequently to the\nhouse, and spent several evenings with Isabel and Fanny; and sometimes\npersuaded them and the Major to go for an afternoon's motoring. He did\nnot, however, come again to the Major's Sunday evening dinner, even when\nGeorge Amberson returned. Sunday evening was the time, he explained, for\ngoing over the week's work with his factory managers.\n\nWhen Lucy came home the autumn was far enough advanced to smell of\nburning leaves, and for the annual editorials, in the papers, on the\npurple haze, the golden branches, the ruddy fruit, and the pleasure of\nlong tramps in the brown forest. George had not heard of her arrival,\nand he met her, on the afternoon following that event, at the Sharons',\nwhere he had gone in the secret hope that he might hear something about\nher. Janie Sharon had just begun to tell him that she heard Lucy\nwas expected home soon, after having \"a perfectly gorgeous\ntime\"--information which George received with no responsive\nenthusiasm--when Lucy came demurely in, a proper little autumn figure in\ngreen and brown.\n\nHer cheeks were flushed, and her dark eyes were bright indeed;\nevidences, as George supposed, of the excitement incidental to the\nperfectly gorgeous time just concluded; though Janie and Mary Sharon\nboth thought they were the effect of Lucy's having seen George's\nrunabout in front of the house as she came in. George took on colour,\nhimself, as, he rose and nodded indifferently; and the hot suffusion to\nwhich he became subject extended its area to include his neck and ears.\nNothing could have made him much more indignant than his consciousness\nof these symptoms of the icy indifference which it was his purpose not\nonly to show but to feel.\n\nShe kissed her cousins, gave George her hand, said \"How d'you do,\" and\ntook a chair beside Janie with a composure which augmented George's\nindignation.\n\n\"How d'you do,\" he said. \"I trust that ah--I trust--I do trust--\"\n\nHe stopped, for it seemed to him that the word \"trust\" sounded idiotic.\nThen, to cover his awkwardness, he coughed, and even to his own rosy\nears his cough was ostentatiously a false one. Whereupon, seeking to be\nplausible, he coughed again, and instantly hated himself: the sound he\nmade was an atrocity. Meanwhile, Lucy sat silent, and the two Sharon\ngirls leaned forward, staring at him with strained eyes, their lips\ntightly compressed; and both were but too easily diagnosed as subject to\nan agitation which threatened their self-control. He began again.\n\n\"I er--I hope you have had a--a pleasant time. I er--I hope you are\nwell. I hope you are extremely--I hope extremely--extremely--\" And again\nhe stopped in the midst of his floundering, not knowing how to progress\nbeyond \"extremely,\" and unable to understand why the infernal word kept\ngetting into his mouth.\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\" Lucy said.\n\nGeorge was never more furious; he felt that he was \"making a spectacle\nof himself\"; and no young gentleman in the world was more loath than\nGeorge Amberson Minafer to look a figure of fun. And while he stood\nthere, undeniably such a figure, with Janie and Mary Sharon threatening\nto burst at any moment, if laughter were longer denied them. Lucy sat\nlooking at him with her eyebrows delicately lifted in casual, polite\ninquiry. Her own complete composure was what most galled him.\n\n\"Nothing of the slightest importance!\" he managed to say. \"I was just\nleaving. Good afternoon!\" And with long strides he reached the door and\nhastened through the hall; but before he closed the front door he heard\nfrom Janie and Mary Sharon the outburst of wild, irrepressible emotion\nwhich his performance had inspired.\n\nHe drove home in a tumultuous mood, and almost ran down two ladies who\nwere engaged in absorbing conversation at a crossing. They were his\nAunt Fanny and the stout Mrs. Johnson; a jerk of the reins at the\nlast instant saved them by a few inches; but their conversation was so\ninteresting that they were unaware of their danger, and did not notice\nthe runabout, nor how close it came to them. George was so furious with\nhimself and with the girl whose unexpected coming into a room could make\nhim look such a fool, that it might have soothed him a little if he had\nactually run over the two absorbed ladies without injuring them beyond\nrepair. At least, he said to himself that he wished he had; it might\nhave taken his mind off of himself for a few minutes. For, in truth, to\nbe ridiculous (and know it) was one of several things that George was\nunable to endure. He was savage.\n\nHe drove into the Major's stable too fast, the sagacious Pendennis\nsaving himself from going through a partition by a swerve which\nsplintered a shaft of the runabout and almost threw the driver to the\nfloor. George swore, and then swore again at the fat old darkey, Tom,\nfor giggling at his swearing.\n\n\"Hoopee!\" said old Tom. \"Mus' been some white lady use Mist' Jawge\nmighty bad! White lady say, 'No, suh, I ain' go'n out ridin' 'ith Mist'\nJawge no mo'!' Mist' Jawge drive in. 'Dam de dam worl'! Dam de dam hoss!\nDam de dam nigga'! Dam de dam dam!' Hoopee!\"\n\n\"That'll do!\" George said sternly.\n\n\"Yessuh!\"\n\nGeorge strode from the stable, crossed the Major's back yard, then\npassed behind the new houses, on his way home. These structures were\nnow approaching completion, but still in a state of rawness hideous to\nGeorge--though, for that matter, they were never to be anything except\nhideous to him. Behind them, stray planks, bricks, refuse of plaster and\nlath, shingles, straw, empty barrels, strips of twisted tin and broken\ntiles were strewn everywhere over the dried and pitted gray mud where\nonce the suave lawn had lain like a green lake around those stately\nislands, the two Amberson houses. And George's state of mind was\nnot improved by his present view of this repulsive area, nor by his\nsensations when he kicked an uptilted shingle only to discover that\nwhat uptilted it was a brickbat on the other side of it. After that, the\nwhole world seemed to be one solid conspiracy of malevolence.\n\nIn this temper he emerged from behind the house nearest to his own, and,\nglancing toward the street, saw his mother standing with Eugene Morgan\nupon the cement path that led to the front gate. She was bareheaded, and\nEugene held his hat and stick in his hand; evidently he had been calling\nupon her, and she had come from the house with him, continuing their\nconversation and delaying their parting.\n\nThey had paused in their slow walk from the front door to the gate, yet\nstill stood side by side, their shoulders almost touching, as though\nneither Isabel nor Eugene quite realized that their feet had ceased to\nbear them forward; and they were not looking at each other, but at\nsome indefinite point before them, as people do who consider together\nthoughtfully and in harmony. The conversation was evidently serious; his\nhead was bent, and Isabel's lifted left hand rested against her\ncheek; but all the significances of their thoughtful attitude denoted\ncompanionableness and a shared understanding. Yet, a stranger, passing,\nwould not have thought them married: somewhere about Eugene, not quite\nto be located, there was a romantic gravity; and Isabel, tall and\ngraceful, with high colour and absorbed eyes, was visibly no wife\nwalking down to the gate with her husband.\n\nGeorge stared at them. A hot dislike struck him at the sight of Eugene;\nand a vague revulsion, like a strange, unpleasant taste in his mouth,\ncame over him as he looked at his mother: her manner was eloquent of so\nmuch thought about her companion and of such reliance upon him. And the\npicture the two thus made was a vivid one indeed, to George, whose angry\neyes, for some reason, fixed themselves most intently upon Isabel's\nlifted hand, upon the white ruffle at her wrist, bordering the graceful\nblack sleeve, and upon the little indentations in her cheek where the\ntips of her fingers rested. She should not have worn white at her\nwrist, or at the throat either, George felt; and then, strangely, his\nresentment concentrated upon those tiny indentations at the tips of her\nfingers--actual changes, however slight and fleeting, in his mother's\nface, made because of Mr. Eugene Morgan. For the moment, it seemed\nto George that Morgan might have claimed the ownership of a face that\nchanged for him.. It was as if he owned Isabel.\n\nThe two began to walk on toward the gate, where they stopped again,\nturning to face each other, and Isabel's glance, passing Eugene, fell\nupon George. Instantly she smiled and waved her hand to him; while\nEugene turned and nodded; but George, standing as in some rigid trance,\nand staring straight at them, gave these signals of greeting no sign of\nrecognition whatever. Upon this, Isabel called to him, waving her hand\nagain.\n\n\"Georgie!\" she called, laughing. \"Wake up, dear! Georgie, hello!\"\n\nGeorge turned away as if he had neither seen nor heard, and stalked into\nthe house by the side door.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXI\n\n\nHe went to his room, threw off his coat, waistcoat, collar, and tie,\nletting them lie where they chanced to fall, and then, having violently\nenveloped himself in a black velvet dressing-gown, continued this action\nby lying down with a vehemence that brought a wheeze of protest from his\nbed. His repose was only a momentary semblance, however, for it lasted\nno longer than the time it took him to groan \"Riffraff!\" between his\nteeth. Then he sat up, swung his feet to the floor, rose, and began to\npace up and down the large room.\n\nHe had just been consciously rude to his mother for the first time in\nhis life; for, with all his riding down of populace and riffraff, he\nhad never before been either deliberately or impulsively disregardful\nof her. When he had hurt her it had been accidental; and his remorse for\nsuch an accident was always adequate compensation--and more--to Isabel.\nBut now he had done a rough thing to her; and he did not repent; rather\nhe was the more irritated with her. And when he heard her presently go\nby his door with a light step, singing cheerfully to herself as she\nwent to her room, he perceived that she had mistaken his intention\naltogether, or, indeed, had failed to perceive that he had any intention\nat all. Evidently she had concluded that he refused to speak to her and\nMorgan out of sheer absent-mindedness, supposing him so immersed in some\npreoccupation that he had not seen them or heard her calling to him.\nTherefore there was nothing of which to repent, even if he had been so\nminded; and probably Eugene himself was unaware that any disapproval had\nrecently been expressed. George snorted. What sort of a dreamy loon did\nthey take him to be?\n\nThere came a delicate, eager tapping at his door, not done with a\nknuckle but with the tip of a fingernail, which was instantly clarified\nto George's mind's eye as plainly as if he saw it: the long and\npolished white-mooned pink shield on the end of his Aunt Fanny's right\nforefinger. But George was in no mood for human communications, and\neven when things went well he had little pleasure in Fanny's society.\nTherefore it is not surprising that at the sound of her tapping, instead\nof bidding her enter, he immediately crossed the room with the intention\nof locking the door to keep her out.\n\nFanny was too eager, and, opening the door before he reached it, came\nquickly in, and closed it behind her. She was in a street dress and a\nblack hat, with a black umbrella in her black-gloved hand--for Fanny's\nheavy mourning, at least, was nowhere tempered with a glimpse of white,\nthough the anniversary of Wilbur's death had passed. An infinitesimal\nperspiration gleamed upon her pale skin; she breathed fast, as if she\nhad run up the stairs; and excitement was sharp in her widened eyes. Her\nlook was that of a person who had just seen something extraordinary or\nheard thrilling news.\n\n\"Now, what on earth do you want?\" her chilling nephew demanded.\n\n\"George,\" she said hurriedly, \"I saw what you did when you wouldn't\nspeak to them. I was sitting with Mrs. Johnson at her front window,\nacross the street, and I saw it all.\"\n\n\"Well, what of it?\"\n\n\"You did right!\" Fanny said with a vehemence not the less spirited\nbecause she suppressed her voice almost to a whisper. \"You did exactly\nright! You're behaving splendidly about the whole thing, and I want to\ntell you I know your father would thank you if he could see what you're\ndoing.\"\n\n\"My Lord!\" George broke out at her. \"You make me dizzy! For heaven's\nsake quit the mysterious detective business--at least do quit it around\nme! Go and try it on somebody else, if you like; but I don't want to\nhear it!\"\n\nShe began to tremble, regarding him with a fixed gaze. \"You don't care\nto hear then,\" she said huskily, \"that I approve of what you're doing?\"\n\n\"Certainly not! Since I haven't the faintest idea what you think I'm\n'doing,' naturally I don't care whether you approve of it or not. All\nI'd like, if you please, is to be alone. I'm not giving a tea here, this\nafternoon, if you'll permit me to mention it!\"\n\nFanny's gaze wavered; she began to blink; then suddenly she sank into a\nchair and wept silently, but with a terrible desolation.\n\n\"Oh, for the Lord's sake!\" he moaned. \"What in the world is wrong with\nyou?\"\n\n\"You're always picking on me,\" she quavered wretchedly, her voice\nindistinct with the wetness that bubbled into it from her tears. \"You\ndo--you always pick on me! You've always done it--always--ever since you\nwere a little boy! Whenever anything goes wrong with you, you take it\nout on me! You do! You always--\"\n\nGeorge flung to heaven a gesture of despair; it seemed to him the last\nstraw that Fanny should have chosen this particular time to come and sob\nin his room over his mistreatment of her!\n\n\"Oh, my Lord!\" he whispered; then, with a great effort, addressed her\nin a reasonable tone: \"Look here, Aunt Fanny; I don't see what you're\nmaking all this fuss about. Of course I know I've teased you sometimes,\nbut--\"\n\n\"Teased' me?\" she wailed. \"Teased' me! Oh, it does seem too hard,\nsometimes--this mean old life of mine does seem too hard! I don't think\nI can stand it! Honestly, I don't think I can! I came in here just to\nshow you I sympathized with you--just to say something pleasant to you,\nand you treat me as if I were--oh, no, you wouldn't treat a servant\nthe way you treat me! You wouldn't treat anybody in the world like this\nexcept old Fanny! 'Old Fanny' you say. 'It's nobody but old Fanny,\nso I'll kick her--nobody will resent it. I'll kick her all I\nwant to!' You do! That's how you think of me-I know it! And you're\nright: I haven't got anything in the world, since my brother\ndied--nobody--nothing--nothing!\"\n\n\"Oh my Lord!\" George groaned.\n\nFanny spread out her small, soaked handkerchief, and shook it in the\nair to dry it a little, crying as damply and as wretchedly during this\noperation' as before--a sight which gave George a curious shock to add\nto his other agitations, it seemed so strange. \"I ought not to have\ncome,\" she went on, \"because I might have known it would only give you\nan excuse to pick on me again! I'm sorry enough I came, I can tell you!\nI didn't mean to speak of it again to you, at all; and I wouldn't have,\nbut I saw how you treated them, and I guess I got excited about it, and\ncouldn't help following the impulse--but I'll know better next time,\nI can tell you! I'll keep my mouth shut as I meant to, and as I would\nhave, if I hadn't got excited and if I hadn't felt sorry for you. But\nwhat does it matter to anybody if I'm sorry for them? I'm only old\nFanny!\"\n\n\"Oh, good gracious! How can it matter to me who's sorry for me when I\ndon't know what they're sorry about!\"\n\n\"You're so proud,\" she quavered, \"and so hard! I tell you I didn't mean\nto speak of it to you, and I never, never in the world would have told\nyou about it, nor have made the faintest reference to it, if I hadn't\nseen that somebody else had told you, or you'd found out for yourself\nsome way. I--\"\n\nIn despair of her intelligence, and in some doubt of his own, George\nstruck the palms of his hands together. \"Somebody else had told me what?\nI'd found what out for myself?\"\n\n\"How people are talking about your mother.\"\n\nExcept for the incidental teariness of her voice, her tone was casual,\nas though she mentioned a subject previously discussed and understood;\nfor Fanny had no doubt that George had only pretended to be mystified\nbecause, in his pride, he would not in words admit that he knew what he\nknew.\n\n\"What did you say?\" he asked incredulously.\n\n\"Of course I understood what you were doing,\" Fanny went on, drying her\nhandkerchief again. \"It puzzled other people when you began to be rude\nto Eugene, because they couldn't see how you could treat him as you did\nwhen you were so interested in Lucy. But I remembered how you came to\nme, that other time when there was so much talk about Isabel; and I\nknew you'd give Lucy up in a minute, if it came to a question of your\nmother's reputation, because you said then that--\"\n\n\"Look here,\" George interrupted in a shaking voice. \"Look here, I'd\nlike--\" He stopped, unable to go on, his agitation was so great. His\nchest heaved as from hard running, and his complexion, pallid at first,\nhad become mottled; fiery splotches appearing at his temples and cheeks.\n\"What do you mean by telling me--telling me there's talk about--about--\"\nHe gulped, and began again: \"What do you mean by using such words as\n'reputation'? What do you mean, speaking of a 'question' of my--my\nmother's reputation?\"\n\nFanny looked up at him woefully over the handkerchief which she now\napplied to her reddened nose. \"God knows I'm sorry for you, George,\" she\nmurmured. \"I wanted to say so, but it's only old Fanny, so whatever\nshe says--even when it's sympathy--pick on her for it! Hammer her!\" She\nsobbed. \"Hammer her! It's only poor old lonely Fanny!\"\n\n\"You look here!\" George said harshly. \"When I spoke to my Uncle George\nafter that rotten thing I heard Aunt Amelia say about my mother, he\nsaid if there was any gossip it was about you! He said people might be\nlaughing about the way you ran after Morgan, but that was all.\"\n\nFanny lifted her hands, clenched them, and struck them upon her knees.\n\"Yes; it's always Fanny!\" she sobbed. \"Ridiculous old Fanny--always,\nalways!\"\n\n\"You listen!\" George said. \"After I'd talked to Uncle George I saw you;\nand you said I had a mean little mind for thinking there might be truth\nin what Aunt Amelia said about people talking. You denied it. And that\nwasn't the only time; you'd attacked me before then, because I intimated\nthat Morgan might be coming here too often. You made me believe that\nmother let him come entirely on your account, and now you say--\"\n\n\"I think he did,\" Fanny interrupted desolately. \"I think he did come as\nmuch to see me as anything--for a while it looked like it. Anyhow, he\nliked to dance with me. He danced with me as much as he danced with her,\nand he acted as if he came on my account at least as much as he did on\nhers. He did act a good deal that way--and if Wilbur hadn't died--\"\n\n\"You told me there wasn't any talk.\"\n\n\"I didn't think there was much, then,\" Fanny protested. \"I didn't know\nhow much there was.\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"People don't come and tell such things to a person's family, you know.\nYou don't suppose anybody was going to say to George Amberson that his\nsister was getting herself talked about, do you? Or that they were going\nto say much to me?\"\n\n\"You told me,\" said George, fiercely, \"that mother never saw him except\nwhen she was chaperoning you.\"\n\n\"They weren't much alone together, then,\" Fanny returned. \"Hardly\never, before Wilbur died. But you don't suppose that stops people from\ntalking, do you? Your father never went anywhere, and people saw Eugene\nwith her everywhere she went--and though I was with them people just\nthought\"--she choked--\"they just thought I didn't count! 'Only old Fanny\nMinafer,' I suppose they'd say! Besides, everybody knew that he'd been\nengaged to her--\"\n\n\"What's that?\" George cried.\n\n\"Everybody knows it. Don't you remember your grandfather speaking of it\nat the Sunday dinner one night?\"\n\n\"He didn't say they were engaged or--\"\n\n\"Well, they were! Everybody knows it; and she broke it off on account of\nthat serenade when Eugene didn't know what he was doing. He drank when\nhe was a young man, and she wouldn't stand it, but everybody in this\ntown knows that Isabel has never really cared for any other man in her\nlife! Poor Wilbur! He was the only soul alive that didn't know it!\"\n\nNightmare had descended upon the unfortunate George; he leaned back\nagainst the foot-board of his bed, gazing wildly at his aunt. \"I believe\nI'm going crazy,\" he said. \"You mean when you told me there wasn't any\ntalk, you told me a falsehood?\"\n\n\"No!\" Fanny gasped.\n\n\"You did!\"\n\n\"I tell you I didn't know how much talk there was, and it wouldn't have\namounted to much if Wilbur had lived.\" And Fanny completed this with a\nfatal admission: \"I didn't want you to interfere.\"\n\nGeorge overlooked the admission; his mind was not now occupied with\nanalysis. \"What do you mean,\" he asked, \"when you say that if father had\nlived, the talk wouldn't have amounted to anything?\"\n\n\"Things might have been--they might have been different.\"\n\n\"You mean Morgan might have married you?\"\n\nFanny gulped. \"No. Because I don't know that I'd have accepted him.\" She\nhad ceased to weep, and now she sat up stiffly. \"I certainly didn't care\nenough about him to marry him; I wouldn't have let myself care that\nmuch until he showed that he wished to marry me. I'm not that sort of\nperson!\" The poor lady paid her vanity this piteous little tribute.\n\"What I mean is, if Wilbur hadn't died, people wouldn't have had it\nproved before their very eyes that what they'd been talking about was\ntrue!\"\n\n\"You say--you say that people believe--\" George shuddered, then forced\nhimself to continue, in a sick voice: \"They believe my mother is--is in\nlove with that man?\"\n\n\"Of course!\"\n\n\"And because he comes here--and they see her with him driving--and all\nthat--they think they were right when they said she was in--in love with\nhim before--before my father died?\"\n\nShe looked at him gravely with her eyes now dry between their reddened\nlids. \"Why, George,\" she said, gently, \"don't you know that's what they\nsay? You must know that everybody in town thinks they're going to be\nmarried very soon.\"\n\nGeorge uttered an incoherent cry; and sections of him appeared to\nwrithe. He was upon the verge of actual nausea.\n\n\"You know it!\" Fanny cried, getting up. \"You don't think I'd have\nspoken of it to you unless I was sure you knew it?\" Her voice was wholly\ngenuine, as it had been throughout the wretched interview: Fanny's\nsincerity was unquestionable. \"George, I wouldn't have told you, if you\ndidn't know. What other reason could you have for treating Eugene as you\ndid, or for refusing to speak to them like that a while ago in the yard?\nSomebody must have told you?\"\n\n\"Who told you?\" he said.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Who told you there was talk? Where is this talk? Where does it come\nfrom? Who does it?\"\n\n\"Why, I suppose pretty much everybody,\" she said. \"I know it must be\npretty general.\"\n\n\"Who said so?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nGeorge stepped close to her. \"You say people don't speak to a person of\ngossip about that person's family. Well, how did you hear it, then? How\ndid you get hold of it? Answer me!\"\n\nFanny looked thoughtful. \"Well, of course nobody not one's most intimate\nfriends would speak to them about such things, and then only in the\nkindest, most considerate way.\"\n\n\"Who's spoken of it to you in any way at all?\" George demanded.\n\n\"Why--\" Fanny hesitated.\n\n\"You answer me!\"\n\n\"I hardly think it would be fair to give names.\"\n\n\"Look here,\" said George. \"One of your most intimate friends is that\nmother of Charlie Johnson's, for instance. Has she ever mentioned this\nto you? You say everybody is talking. Is she one?\"\n\n\"Oh, she may have intimated--\"\n\n\"I'm asking you: Has she ever spoken of it to you?\"\n\n\"She's a very kind, discreet woman, George; but she may have\nintimated--\"\n\nGeorge had a sudden intuition, as there flickered into his mind the\npicture of a street-crossing and two absorbed ladies almost run down by\na fast horse. \"You and she have been talking about it to-day!\" he cried.\n\"You were talking about it with her not two hours ago. Do you deny it?\"\n\n\"I--\"\n\n\"Do you deny it?\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"All right,\" said George. \"That's enough!\"\n\nShe caught at his arm as he turned away. \"What are you going to do,\nGeorge?\"\n\n\"I'll not talk about it, now,\" he said heavily. \"I think you've done a\ngood deal for one day, Aunt Fanny!\"\n\nAnd Fanny, seeing the passion in his face, began to be alarmed. She\ntried to retain possession of the black velvet sleeve which her fingers\nhad clutched, and he suffered her to do so, but used this leverage to\nurge her to the door. \"George, you know I'm sorry for you, whether you\ncare or not,\" she whimpered. \"I never in the world would have spoken of\nit, if I hadn't thought you knew all about it. I wouldn't have--\"\n\nBut he had opened the door with his free hand. \"Never mind!\" he said,\nand she was obliged to pass out into the hall, the door closing quickly\nbehind her.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXII\n\n\nGeorge took off his dressing-gown and put on a collar and a tie, his\nfingers shaking so that the tie was not his usual success; then he\npicked up his coat and waistcoat, and left the room while still in\nprocess of donning them, fastening the buttons, as he ran down the front\nstairs to the door. It was not until he reached the middle of the street\nthat he realized that he had forgotten his hat; and he paused for an\nirresolute moment, during which his eye wandered, for no reason, to the\nFountain of Neptune. This castiron replica of too elaborate sculpture\nstood at the next corner, where the Major had placed it when the\nAddition was laid out so long ago. The street corners had been shaped to\nconform with the great octagonal basin, which was no great inconvenience\nfor horse-drawn vehicles, but a nuisance to speeding automobiles; and,\neven as George looked, one of the latter, coming too fast, saved itself\nonly by a dangerous skid as it rounded the fountain. This skid was to\nGeorge's liking, though he would have been more pleased to see the car\ngo over, for he was wishing grief and destruction, just then, upon all\nthe automobiles in the world.\n\nHis eyes rested a second or two longer upon the Fountain of Neptune, not\nan enlivening sight even in the shielding haze of autumn twilight. For\nmore than a year no water had run in the fountain: the connections had\nbeen broken, and the Major was evasive about restorations, even when\nreminded by his grandson that a dry fountain is as gay as a dry fish.\nSoot streaks and a thousand pits gave Neptune the distinction, at least,\nof leprosy, which the mermaids associated with him had been consistent\nin catching; and his trident had been so deeply affected as to drop its\nprongs. Altogether, this heavy work of heavy art, smoked dry, hugely\nscabbed, cracked, and crumbling, was a dismal sight to the distracted\neye of George Amberson Minafer, and its present condition of craziness\nmay have added a mite to his own. His own was sufficient, with no\nadditions, however, as he stood looking at the Johnsons' house and\nthose houses on both sides of it--that row of riffraff dwellings he had\nthought so damnable, the day when he stood in his grandfather's yard,\nstaring at them, after hearing what his Aunt Amelia said of the \"talk\"\nabout his mother.\n\nHe decided that he needed no hat for the sort of call he intended to\nmake, and went forward hurriedly. Mrs. Johnson was at home, the Irish\ngirl who came to the door informed him, and he was left to await the\nlady, in a room like an elegant well--the Johnsons' \"reception room\":\nfloor space, nothing to mention; walls, blue calcimined; ceiling, twelve\nfeet from the floor; inside shutters and gray lace curtains; five gilt\nchairs, a brocaded sofa, soiled, and an inlaid walnut table, supporting\ntwo tall alabaster vases; a palm, with two leaves, dying in a corner.\n\nMrs. Johnson came in, breathing noticeably; and her round head, smoothly\nbut economically decorated with the hair of an honest woman, seemed\nto be lingering far in the background of the Alpine bosom which took\nprecedence of the rest of her everywhere; but when she was all in the\nroom, it was to be seen that her breathing was the result of hospitable\nhaste to greet the visitor, and her hand, not so dry as Neptune's\nFountain, suggested that she had paused for only the briefest ablutions.\nGeorge accepted this cold, damp lump mechanically.\n\n\"Mr. Amberson--I mean Mr. Minafer!\" she exclaimed. \"I'm really\ndelighted: I understood you asked for me. Mr. Johnson's out of the city,\nbut Charlie's downtown and I'm looking for him at any minute, now, and\nhe'll be so pleased that you--\"\n\n\"I didn't want to see Charlie,\" George said. \"I want\"\n\n\"Do sit down,\" the hospitable lady urged him, seating herself upon the\nsofa. \"Do sit down.\"\n\n\"No, I thank you. I wish--\"\n\n\"Surely you're not going to run away again, when you've just come. Do\nsit down, Mr. Minafer. I hope you're all well at your house and at the\ndear old Major's, too. He's looking--\"\n\n\"Mrs. Johnson\" George said, in a strained loud voice which arrested\nher attention immediately, so that she was abruptly silent, leaving her\nsurprised mouth open. She had already been concealing some astonishment\nat this unexampled visit, however, and the condition of George's\nordinarily smooth hair (for he had overlooked more than his hat) had not\nalleviated her perplexity. \"Mrs. Johnson,\" he said, \"I have come to ask\nyou a few questions which I would like you to answer, if you please.\"\n\nShe became grave at once. \"Certainly, Mr. Minafer. Anything I can--\"\n\nHe interrupted sternly, yet his voice shook in spite of its sternness.\n\"You were talking with my Aunt Fanny about my mother this afternoon.\"\n\nAt this Mrs. Johnson uttered an involuntary gasp, but she recovered\nherself. \"Then I'm sure our conversation was a very pleasant one, if we\nwere talking of your mother, because--\"\n\nAgain he interrupted. \"My aunt has told me what the conversation\nvirtually was, and I don't mean to waste any time, Mrs. Johnson.\nYou were talking about a--\" George's shoulders suddenly heaved\nuncontrollably; but he went fiercely on: \"You were discussing a scandal\nthat involved my mother's name.\"\n\n\"Mr. Minafer!\"\n\n\"Isn't that the truth?\"\n\n\"I don't feel called upon to answer, Mr. Minafer,\" she said with visible\nagitation. \"I do not consider that you have any right--\"\n\n\"My aunt told me you repeated this scandal to her.\"\n\n\"I don't think your aunt can have said that,\" Mrs. Johnson returned\nsharply. \"I did not repeat a scandal of any kind to your aunt and\nI think you are mistaken in saying she told you I did. We may, have\ndiscussed some matters that have been a topic of comment about town--\"\n\n\"Yes!\" George cried. \"I think you may have! That's what I'm here about,\nand what I intend to--\"\n\n\"Don't tell me what you intend, please,\" Mrs. Johnson interrupted\ncrisply. \"And I should prefer that you would not make your voice quite\nso loud in this house, which I happen to own. Your aunt may have told\nyou--though I think it would have been very unwise in her if she did,\nand not very considerate of me--she may have told you that we discussed\nsome such topic as I have mentioned, and possibly that would have been\ntrue. If I talked it over with her, you may be sure I spoke in the most\ncharitable spirit, and without sharing in other people's disposition to\nput an evil interpretation on what may, be nothing more than unfortunate\nappearances and--\"\n\n\"My God!\" said George. \"I can't stand this!\"\n\n\"You have the option of dropping the subject,\" Mrs. Johnson suggested\ntartly, and she added: \"Or of leaving the house.\"\n\n\"I'll do that soon enough, but first I mean to know--\"\n\n\"I am perfectly willing to tell you anything you wish if you will\nremember to ask it quietly. I'll also take the liberty of reminding you\nthat I had a perfect right to discuss the subject with your aunt. Other\npeople may be less considerate in not confining their discussion of it,\nas I have, to charitable views expressed only to a member of the family.\nOther people--\"\n\n\"Other people!\" the unhappy George repeated viciously. \"That's what I\nwant to know about--these other people!\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon.\"\n\n\"I want to ask you about them. You say you know of other people who talk\nabout this.\"\n\n\"I presume they do.\"\n\n\"How many?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I want to know how many other people talk about it?\"\n\n\"Dear, dear!\" she protested. \"How should I know that?\"\n\n\"Haven't you heard anybody mention it?\"\n\n\"I presume so.\"\n\n\"Well, how many have you heard?\"\n\nMrs. Johnson was becoming more annoyed than apprehensive, and she\nshowed it. \"Really, this isn't a court-room,\" she said. \"And I'm not a\ndefendant in a libel-suit, either!\"\n\nThe unfortunate young man lost what remained of his balance. \"You may\nbe!\" he cried. \"I intend to know just who's dared to say these things,\nif I have to force my way into every house in town, and I'm going to\nmake them take every word of it back! I mean to know the name of every\nslanderer that's spoken of this matter to you and of every tattler\nyou've passed it on to yourself. I mean to know--\"\n\n\"You'll know something pretty quick!\" she said, rising with difficulty;\nand her voice was thick with the sense of insult. \"You'll know that\nyou're out in the street. Please to leave my house!\"\n\nGeorge stiffened sharply. Then he bowed, and strode out of the door.\n\nThree minutes later, disheveled and perspiring, but cold all over, he\nburst into his Uncle George's room at the Major's without knocking.\nAmberson was dressing.\n\n\"Good gracious, Georgie!\" he exclaimed. \"What's up?\"\n\n\"I've just come from Mrs. Johnson's--across the street,\" George panted.\n\n\"You have your own tastes!\" was Amberson's comment. \"But curious as they\nare, you ought to do something better with your hair, and button your\nwaistcoat to the right buttons--even for Mrs. Johnson! What were you\ndoing over there?\"\n\n\"She told me to leave the house,\" George said desperately. \"I went there\nbecause Aunt Fanny told me the whole town was talking about my mother\nand that man Morgan--that they say my mother is going to marry him and\nthat proves she was too fond of him before my father died--she said this\nMrs. Johnson was one that talked about it, and I went to her to ask who\nwere the others.\"\n\nAmberson's jaw fell in dismay. \"Don't tell me you did that!\" he said, in\na low voice; and then, seeing that it was true, \"Oh, now you have done\nit!\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIII\n\n\n\n\"I've 'done it'?\" George cried. \"What do you mean: I've done it? And\nwhat have I done?\"\n\nAmberson had collapsed into an easy chair beside his dressing-table, the\nwhite evening tie he had been about to put on dangling from his hand,\nwhich had fallen limply on the arm of the chair. The tie dropped to the\nfloor before he replied; and the hand that had held it was lifted to\nstroke his graying hair reflectively. \"By Jove!\" he muttered. \"That is\ntoo bad!\"\n\nGeorge folded his arms bitterly. \"Will you kindly answer my question?\nWhat have I done that wasn't honourable and right? Do you think these\nriffraff can go about bandying my mother's name--\"\n\n\"They can now,\" said Amberson. \"I don't know if they could before, but\nthey certainly can now!\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\nHis uncle sighed profoundly, picked up his tie and, preoccupied with\ndespondency, twisted the strip of white lawn till it became unwearable.\nMeanwhile, he tried to enlighten his nephew. \"Gossip is never fatal,\nGeorgie,\" he said, \"until it is denied. Gossip goes on about every\nhuman being alive and about all the dead that are alive enough to be\nremembered, and yet almost never does any harm until some defender makes\na controversy. Gossip's a nasty thing, but it's sickly, and if people\nof good intentions will let it entirely alone, it will die, ninety-nine\ntimes out of a hundred.\"\n\n\"See here,\" George said: \"I didn't come to listen to any generalizing\ndose of philosophy! I ask you--\"\n\n\"You asked me what you've done, and I'm telling you.\" Amberson gave him\na melancholy smile, continuing: \"Suffer me to do it in my own way. Fanny\nsays there's been talk about your mother, and that Mrs. Johnson does\nsome of it. I don't know, because naturally nobody would come to me with\nsuch stuff or mention it before me; but it's presumably true--I suppose\nit is. I've seen Fanny with Mrs. Johnson quite a lot; and that old lady\nis a notorious gossip, and that's why she ordered you out of her house\nwhen you pinned her down that she'd been gossiping. I have a suspicion\nMrs. Johnson has been quite a comfort to Fanny in their long talks; but\nshe'll probably quit speaking to her over this, because Fanny told you.\nI suppose it's true that the 'whole town,' a lot of others, that is,\ndo share in the gossip. In this town, naturally, anything about any\nAmberson has always been a stone dropped into the centre of a pond, and\na lie would send the ripples as far as a truth would. I've been on a\nsteamer when the story went all over the boat, the second day out,' that\nthe prettiest girl on board didn't have any ears; and you can take it\nas a rule that when a woman's past thirty-five the prettier her hair is,\nthe more certain you are to meet somebody with reliable information that\nit's a wig. You can be sure that for many years there's been more gossip\nin this place about the Ambersons than about any other family. I dare\nsay it isn't so much so now as it used to be, because the town got too\nbig long ago, but it's the truth that the more prominent you are the\nmore gossip there is about you, and the more people would like to pull\nyou down. Well, they can't do it as long as you refuse to know what\ngossip there is about you. But the minute you notice it, it's got you!\nI'm not speaking of certain kinds of slander that sometimes people have\ngot to take to the courts; I'm talking of the wretched buzzing the\nMrs. John-sons do--the thing you seem to have such a horror of--people\n'talking'--the kind of thing that has assailed your mother. People who\nhave repeated a slander either get ashamed or forget it, if they're\nlet alone. Challenge them, and in self-defense they believe everything\nthey've said: they'd rather believe you a sinner than believe themselves\nliars, naturally. Submit to gossip and you kill it; fight it and you\nmake it strong. People will forget almost any slander except one that's\nbeen fought.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\" George asked.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" his uncle murmured sadly.\n\n\"Well, then, may I ask what you'd have done, in my place?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure, Georgie. When I was your age I was like you in many ways,\nespecially in not being very cool-headed, so I can't say. Youth can't be\ntrusted for much, except asserting itself and fighting and making love.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" George snorted. \"May I ask what you think I ought to have\ndone?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"'Nothing?\" George echoed, mocking bitterly \"I suppose you think I mean\nto let my mother's good name--\"\n\n\"Your mother's good name!\" Amberson cut him off impatiently. \"Nobody\nhas a good name in a bad mouth. Nobody has a good name in a silly mouth,\neither. Well, your mother's name was in some silly mouths, and all\nyou've done was to go and have a scene with the worst old woman gossip\nin the town--a scene that's going to make her into a partisan against\nyour mother, whereas she was a mere prattler before. Don't you suppose\nshe'll be all over town with this to-morrow? To-morrow? Why, she'll\nhave her telephone going to-night as long as any of her friends are up!\nPeople that never heard anything about this are going to hear it all\nnow, with embellishments. And she'll see to it that everybody who's\nhinted anything about poor Isabel will know that you're on the warpath;\nand that will put them on the defensive and make them vicious. The story\nwill grow as it spreads and--\"\n\nGeorge unfolded his arms to strike his right fist into his left palm.\n\"But do you suppose I'm going to tolerate such things?\" he shouted.\n\"What do you suppose I'll be doing?\"\n\n\"Nothing helpful.\"\n\n\"Oh, you think so, do you?\"\n\n\"You can do absolutely nothing,\" said Amberson. \"Nothing of any use. The\nmore you do the more harm you'll do.\"\n\n\"You'll see! I'm going to stop this thing if I have to force my way into\nevery house on National Avenue and Amberson Boulevard!\"\n\nHis uncle laughed rather sourly, but made no other comment.\n\n\"Well, what do you propose to do?\" George demanded. \"Do you propose to\nsit there--\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"--and let this riffraff bandy my mother's good name back and forth\namong them? Is that what you propose to do?\"\n\n\"It's all I can do,\" Amberson returned. \"It's all any of us can do now:\njust sit still and hope that the thing may die down in time, in spite of\nyour stirring up that awful old woman.\"\n\nGeorge drew a long breath, then advanced and stood close before his\nuncle. \"Didn't you understand me when I told you that people are saying\nmy mother means to marry this man?\"\n\n\"Yes, I understood you.\"\n\n\"You say that my going over there has made matters worse,\" George went\non. \"How about it if such a--such an unspeakable marriage did take\nplace? Do you think that would make people believe they'd been wrong in\nsaying--you know what they say.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Amberson deliberately; \"I don't believe it would. There'd be\nmore badness in the bad mouths and more silliness in the silly mouths, I\ndare say. But it wouldn't hurt Isabel and Eugene, if they never heard\nof it; and if they did hear of it, then they could take their choice\nbetween placating gossip or living for their own happiness. If they have\ndecided to marry--\"\n\nGeorge almost staggered. \"Good God!\" he gasped. \"You speak of it\ncalmly!\"\n\nAmberson looked up at him inquiringly. \"Why shouldn't they marry if they\nwant to?\" he asked. \"It's their own affair.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't they?\" George echoed. \"Why shouldn't they?\"\n\n\"Yes. Why shouldn't they? I don't see anything precisely monstrous about\ntwo people getting married when they're both free and care about each\nother. What's the matter with their marrying?\"\n\n\"It would be monstrous!\" George shouted. \"Monstrous even if this\nhorrible thing hadn't happened, but now in the face of this--oh, that\nyou can sit there and even speak of it! Your own sister! O God! Oh--\" He\nbecame incoherent, swinging away from Amberson and making for the door,\nwildly gesturing.\n\n\"For heaven's sake, don't be so theatrical!\" said his uncle, and then,\nseeing that George was leaving the room: \"Come back here. You mustn't\nspeak to your mother of this!\"\n\n\"Don't 'tend to,\" George said indistinctly; and he plunged out into the\nbig dimly lit hall. He passed his grandfather's room on the way to\nthe stairs; and the Major was visible within, his white head brightly\nillumined by a lamp, as he bent low over a ledger upon his roll-top\ndesk. He did not look up, and his grandson strode by the door, not\nreally conscious of the old figure stooping at its tremulous work with\nlong additions and subtractions that refused to balance as they used to.\nGeorge went home and got a hat and overcoat without seeing either his\nmother or Fanny. Then he left word that he would be out for dinner, and\nhurried away from the house.\n\nHe walked the dark streets of Amberson Addition for an hour, then went\ndowntown and got coffee at a restaurant. After that he walked through\nthe lighted parts of the town until ten o'clock, when he turned north\nand came back to the purlieus of the Addition. He strode through the\nlength and breadth of it again, his hat pulled down over his forehead,\nhis overcoat collar turned up behind. He walked fiercely, though his\nfeet ached, but by and by he turned homeward, and, when he reached the\nMajor's, went in and sat upon the steps of the huge stone veranda in\nfront--an obscure figure in that lonely and repellent place. All lights\nwere out at the Major's, and finally, after twelve, he saw his mother's\nwindow darken at home.\n\nHe waited half an hour longer, then crossed the front yards of the new\nhouses and let himself noiselessly in the front door. The light in\nthe hall had been left burning, and another in his own room, as he\ndiscovered when he got there. He locked the door quickly and without\nnoise, but his fingers were still upon the key when there was a quick\nfootfall in the hall outside.\n\n\"Georgie, dear?\"\n\nHe went to the other end of the room before replying.\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"I'd been wondering where you were, dear.\"\n\n\"Had you?\"\n\nThere was a pause; then she said timidly: \"Wherever it was, I hope you\nhad a pleasant evening.\"\n\nAfter a silence, \"Thank you,\" he said, without expression.\n\nAnother silence followed before she spoke again.\n\n\"You wouldn't care to be kissed good-night, I suppose?\" And with\na little flurry of placative laughter, she added: \"At your age, of\ncourse!\"\n\n\"I'm going to bed, now,\" he said. \"Goodnight.\"\n\nAnother silence seemed blanker than those which had preceded it, and\nfinally her voice came--it was blank, too.\n\n\"Good-night.\"\n\nAfter he was in bed his thoughts became more tumultuous than ever; while\namong all the inchoate and fragmentary sketches of this dreadful day,\nnow rising before him, the clearest was of his uncle collapsed in a\nbig chair with a white tie dangling from his hand; and one conviction,\nfollowing upon that picture, became definite in George's mind: that his\nUncle George Amberson was a hopeless dreamer from whom no help need be\nexpected, an amiable imbecile lacking in normal impulses, and wholly\nuseless in a struggle which required honour to be defended by a man of\naction.\n\nThen would return a vision of Mrs. Johnson's furious round head,\nset behind her great bosom like the sun far sunk on the horizon of a\nmountain plateau--and her crackling, asthmatic voice... \"Without sharing\nin other people's disposition to put an evil interpretation on what may\nbe nothing more than unfortunate appearances.\"... \"Other people may be\nless considerate in not confining their discussion of it, as I have, to\ncharitable views.\"... \"you'll know something pretty quick! You'll know\nyou're out in the street.\"... And then George would get up again--and\nagain--and pace the floor in his bare feet.\n\nThat was what the tormented young man was doing when daylight came\ngauntly in at his window--pacing the floor, rubbing his head in his\nhands, and muttering:\n\n\"It can't be true: this can't be happening to me!\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIV\n\n\n\nBreakfast was brought to him in his room, as usual; but he did not\nmake his normal healthy raid upon the dainty tray: the food remained\nuntouched, and he sustained himself upon coffee--four cups of it, which\nleft nothing of value inside the glistening little percolator. During\nthis process he heard his mother being summoned to the telephone in the\nhall, not far from his door, and then her voice responding: \"Yes? Oh,\nit's you! Indeed I should!... Of course.. .. Then I'll expect you about\nthree... Yes. Good-bye till then.\" A few minutes later he heard her\nspeaking to someone beneath his window and, looking out, saw her\ndirecting the removal of plants from a small garden bed to the Major's\nconservatory for the winter. There was an air of briskness about her; as\nshe turned away to go into the house, she laughed gaily with the Major's\ngardener over something he said, and this unconcerned cheerfulness of\nher was terrible to her son.\n\nHe went to his desk, and, searching the jumbled contents of a drawer,\nbrought forth a large, unframed photograph of his father, upon which he\ngazed long and piteously, till at last hot tears stood in his eyes. It\nwas strange how the inconsequent face of Wilbur seemed to increase in\nhigh significance during this belated interview between father and son;\nand how it seemed to take on a reproachful nobility--and yet, under the\ncircumstances, nothing could have been more natural than that George,\nhaving paid but the slightest attention to his father in life, should\nbegin to deify him, now that he was dead. \"Poor, poor father!\" the son\nwhispered brokenly. \"Poor man, I'm glad you didn't know!\"\n\nHe wrapped the picture in a sheet of newspaper, put it under his arm,\nand, leaving the house hurriedly and stealthily, went downtown to the\nshop of a silversmith, where he spent sixty dollars on a resplendently\nfestooned silver frame for the picture. Having lunched upon more coffee,\nhe returned to the house at two o'clock, carrying the framed photograph\nwith him, and placed it upon the centre-table in the library, the room\nmost used by Isabel and Fanny and himself. Then he went to a front\nwindow of the long \"reception room,\" and sat looking out through the\nlace curtains.\n\nThe house was quiet, though once or twice he heard his mother and Fanny\nmoving about upstairs, and a ripple of song in the voice of Isabel--a\nfragment from the romantic ballad of Lord Bateman.\n\n\"Lord Bateman was a noble lord, A noble lord of high degree; And he\nsailed West and he sailed East, Far countries for to see....\"\n\nThe words became indistinct; the air was hummed absently; the humming\nshifted to a whistle, then drifted out of hearing, and the place was\nstill again.\n\nGeorge looked often at his watch, but his vigil did not last an hour. At\nten minutes of three, peering through the curtain, he saw an automobile\nstop in front of the house and Eugene Morgan jump lightly down from it.\nThe car was of a new pattern, low and long, with an ample seat in the\ntonneau, facing forward; and a professional driver sat at the wheel, a\nstrange figure in leather, goggled out of all personality and seemingly\npart of the mechanism.\n\nEugene himself, as he came up the cement path to the house, was a figure\nof the new era which was in time to be so disastrous to stiff hats and\nskirted coats; and his appearance afforded a debonair contrast to that\nof the queer-looking duck capering: at the Amberson Ball in an old dress\ncoat, and chugging up National Avenue through the snow in his nightmare\nof a sewing-machine. Eugene, this afternoon, was richly in the new\noutdoor mode: motoring coat was soft gray fur; his cap and gloves were\nof gray suede; and though Lucy's hand may have shown itself in the\nselection of these garnitures, he wore them easily, even with becoming\nhint of jauntiness. Some change might be his face, too, for a successful\nman is seldom to be mistaken, especially if his temper be genial. Eugene\nhad begun to look like a millionaire.\n\nBut above everything else, what was most evident about him, as he came\nup the path, was confidence in the happiness promised by his errand; the\nanticipation in his eyes could have been read by a stranger. His look\nat the door of Isabel's house was the look of a man who is quite\ncertain that the next moment will reveal something ineffably charming,\ninexpressibly dear.\n\nWhen the bell rang, George waited at the entrance of the \"reception\nroom\" until a housemaid came through the hall on her way to answer the\nsummons.\n\n\"You needn't mind, Mary,\" he told her. \"I'll see who it is and what they\nwant. Probably it's only a pedlar.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir, Mister George,\" said Mary; and returned to the rear of\nthe house.\n\nGeorge went slowly to the front door, and halted, regarding the misty\nsilhouette of the caller upon the ornamental frosted glass. After a\nminute of waiting, this silhouette changed outline so that an arm\ncould be distinguished--an arm outstretched toward the bell, as if the\ngentleman outside doubted whether or not it had sounded, and were minded\nto try again. But before the gesture was completed George abruptly threw\nopen the door, and stepped squarely upon the middle of the threshold.\n\nA slight change shadowed the face of Eugene; his look of happy\nanticipation gave way to something formal and polite. \"How do you\ndo, George,\" he said. \"Mrs. Minafer expects to go driving with me, I\nbelieve--if you'll be so kind as to send her word that I'm here.\"\n\nGeorge made not the slightest movement.\n\n\"No,\" he said.\n\nEugene was incredulous, even when his second glance revealed how hot of\neye was the haggard young man before him. \"I beg your pardon. I said--\"\n\n\"I heard you,\" said George. \"You said you had an engagement with my\nmother, and I told you, No!\"\n\nEugene gave him a steady look, and then he quietly: \"What is the--the\ndifficulty?\"\n\nGeorge kept his own voice quiet enough, but that, did not mitigate the\nvibrant fury of it. \"My--mother will have no interest in knowing that\nyou came here to-day,\" he said. \"Or any other day!\"\n\nEugene continued to look at him with a scrutiny in which began to gleam\na profound anger, none less powerful because it was so quiet. \"I am\nafraid I do not understand you.\"\n\n\"I doubt if I could make it much plainer,\" George said, raising his\nvoice slightly, \"but I'll try. You're not wanted in this house, Mr.\nMorgan, now or at any other time. Perhaps you'll understand--this!\"\n\nAnd with the last word he closed the door in Eugene's face.\n\nThen, not moving away, he stood just inside door, and noted that the\nmisty silhouette remained upon the frosted glass for several moments,\nas if the forbidden gentleman debated in his mind what course to pursue.\n\"Let him ring again!\" George thought grimly. \"Or try the side door--or\nthe kitchen!\"\n\nBut Eugene made no further attempt; the silhouette disappeared;\nfootsteps could be heard withdrawing across the floor of the veranda;\nand George, returning to the window in the \"reception room,\" was\nrewarded by the sight of an automobile manufacturer in baffled retreat,\nwith all his wooing furs and fineries mocking him. Eugene got into his\ncar slowly, not looking back at the house which had just taught him such\na lesson; and it was easily visible--even from a window seventy feet\ndistant--that he was not the same light suitor who had jumped so\ngallantly from the car only a few minutes earlier. Observing the\nheaviness of his movements as he climbed into the tonneau, George\nindulged in a sickish throat rumble which bore a distant cousinship to\nmirth.\n\nThe car was quicker than its owner; it shot away as soon as he had sunk\ninto his seat; and George, having watched its impetuous disappearance\nfrom his field of vision, ceased to haunt the window. He went to the\nlibrary, and, seating himself beside the table whereon he had placed\nthe photograph of his father, picked up a book, and pretended to be\nengaged in reading it.\n\nPresently Isabel's buoyant step was heard descending the stairs, and her\nlow, sweet whistling, renewing the air of \"Lord Bateman.\" She came into\nthe library, still whistling thoughtfully, a fur coat over her arm,\nready to put on, and two veils round her small black hat, her right hand\nengaged in buttoning the glove upon her left; and, as the large room\ncontained too many pieces of heavy furniture, and the inside shutters\nexcluded most of the light of day, she did not at once perceive George's\npresence. Instead, she went to the bay window at the end of the room,\nwhich afforded a view of the street, and glanced out expectantly; then\nbent her attention upon her glove; after that, looked out toward the\nstreet again, ceased to whistle, and turned toward the interior of the\nroom.\n\n\"Why, Georgie!\"\n\nShe came, leaned over from behind him, and there was a faint, exquisite\nodour as from distant apple blossoms as she kissed his cheek. \"Dear, I\nwaited lunch almost an hour for you, but you didn't come! Did you lunch\nout somewhere?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" He did not look up from the book.\n\n\"Did you have plenty to eat?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Are you sure? Wouldn't you like to have Maggie get you something now\nin the dining room? Or they could bring it to you here, if you think it\nwould be cozier. Shan't I--\"\n\nA tinkling bell was audible, and she moved to the doorway into the hall.\n\"I'm going out driving, dear. I--\" She interrupted herself to address\nthe housemaid, who was passing through the hall: \"I think it's Mr.\nMorgan, Mary. Tell him I'll be there at once.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\nMary returned. \"Twas a pedlar, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Another one?\" Isabel said, surprised. \"I thought you said it was a\npedlar when the bell rang a little while ago.\"\n\n\"Mister George said it was, ma'am; he went to the door,\" Mary informed\nher, disappearing.\n\n\"There seem to be a great many of them,\" Isabel mused. \"What did yours\nwant to sell, George?\"\n\n\"He didn't say.\"\n\n\"You must have cut him off short!\" she laughed; and then, still standing\nin the doorway, she noticed the big silver frame upon the table beside\nhim. \"Gracious, Georgie!\" she exclaimed. \"You have been investing!\" and\nas she came across the room for a closer view, \"Is it--is it Lucy?\"\nshe asked half timidly, half archly. But the next instant she saw whose\nlikeness was thus set forth in elegiac splendour--and she was silent,\nexcept for a long, just-audible \"Oh!\"\n\nHe neither looked up nor moved.\n\n\"That was nice of you, Georgie,\" she said, in a low voice presently. \"I\nought to have had it framed, myself, when I gave it to you.\"\n\nHe said nothing, and, standing beside him, she put her hand gently upon\nhis shoulder, then as gently withdrew it, and went out of the room. But\nshe did not go upstairs; he heard the faint rustle of her dress in the\nhall, and then the sound of her footsteps in the \"reception room.\" After\na time, silence succeeded even these slight tokens of her presence;\nwhereupon George rose and went warily into the hall, taking care to make\nno noise, and he obtained an oblique view of her through the open double\ndoors of the \"reception room.\" She was sitting in the chair which he had\noccupied so long; and she was looking out of the window expectantly--a\nlittle troubled.\n\nHe went back to the library, waited an interminable half hour, then\nreturned noiselessly to the same position in the hall, where he could\nsee her. She was still sitting patiently by the window.\n\nWaiting for that man, was she? Well, it might be quite a long wait! And\nthe grim George silently ascended the stairs to his own room, and began\nto pace his suffering floor.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXV\n\n\n\nHe left his door open, however, and when he heard the front door-bell\nring, by and by, he went half way down the stairs and stood to listen.\nHe was not much afraid that Morgan would return, but he wished to make\nsure.\n\nMary appeared in the hall below him, but, after a glance toward the\nfront of the house, turned back, and withdrew. Evidently Isabel had gone\nto the door. Then a murmur was heard, and George Amberson's voice, quick\nand serious: \"I want to talk to you, Isabel\"... and another murmur; then\nIsabel and her brother passed the foot of the broad, dark stairway, but\ndid not look up, and remained unconscious of the watchful presence above\nthem. Isabel still carried her cloak upon her arm, but Amberson had\ntaken her hand, and retained it; and as he led her silently into the\nlibrary there was something about her attitude, and the pose of her\nslightly bent head, that was both startled and meek. Thus they quickly\ndisappeared from George's sight, hand in hand; and Amberson at once\nclosed the massive double doors of the library.\n\nFor a time all that George could hear was the indistinct sound of his\nuncle's voice: what he was saying could not be surmised, though\nthe troubled brotherliness of his tone was evident. He seemed to be\nexplaining something at considerable length, and there were moments\nwhen he paused, and George guessed that his mother was speaking, but her\nvoice must have been very low, for it was entirely inaudible to him.\n\nSuddenly he did hear her. Through the heavy doors her outcry came, clear\nand loud:\n\n\"Oh, no!\"\n\nIt was a cry of protest, as if something her brother told her must be\nuntrue, or, if it were true, the fact he stated must be undone; and it\nwas a sound of sheer pain.\n\nAnother sound of pain, close to George, followed it; this was a vehement\nsniffling which broke out just above him, and, looking up, he saw Fanny\nMinafer on the landing, leaning over the banisters and applying her\nhandkerchief to her eyes and nose.\n\n\"I can guess what that was about,\" she whispered huskily. \"He's just\ntold her what you did to Eugene!\"\n\nGeorge gave her a dark look over his shoulder. \"You go on back to your\nroom!\" he said; and he began to descend the stairs; but Fanny, guessing\nhis purpose, rushed down and caught his arm, detaining him.\n\n\"You're not going in there?\", she whispered huskily. \"You don't--\"\n\n\"Let go of me!\"\n\nBut she clung to him savagely. \"No, you don't, Georgie Minafer! You'll\nkeep away from there! You will!\"\n\n\"You let go of--\"\n\n\"I won't! You come back here! You'll come upstairs and let them alone;\nthat's what you'll do!\" And with such passionate determination did she\nclutch and tug, never losing a grip of him somewhere, though George\ntried as much as he could, without hurting her, to wrench away--with\nsuch utter forgetfulness of her maiden dignity did she assault him, that\nshe forced him, stumbling upward, to the landing.\n\n\"Of all the ridiculous--\" he began furiously; but she spared one hand\nfrom its grasp of his sleeve and clapped it over his mouth.\n\n\"Hush up!\" Never for an instant in this grotesque struggle did Fanny\nraise her voice above a husky whisper. \"Hush up! It's indecent--like\nsquabbling outside the door of an operating-room! Go on to the top of\nthe stairs--go on!\"\n\nAnd when George had most unwillingly obeyed, she planted herself in\nhis way, on the top step. \"There!\" she said. \"The idea of your going in\nthere now! I never heard of such a thing!\" And with the sudden departure\nof the nervous vigour she had shown so amazingly, she began to cry\nagain. \"I was an awful fool! I thought you knew what was going on or\nI never, never would have done it. Do you suppose I dreamed you'd go\nmaking everything into such a tragedy? Do you?\"\n\n\"I don't care what you dreamed,\" George muttered.\n\nBut Fanny went on, always taking care to keep her voice from getting too\nloud, in spite of her most grievous agitation. \"Do you dream I thought\nyou'd go making such a fool of yourself at Mrs. Johnson's? Oh, I saw her\nthis morning! She wouldn't talk to me, but I met George Amberson on my\nway back, and he told me what you'd done over there! And do you dream I\nthought you'd do what you've done here this afternoon to Eugene? Oh, I\nknew that, too! I was looking out of the front bedroom window, and I saw\nhim drive up, and then go away again, and I knew you'd been to the door.\nOf course he went to George Amberson about it, and that's why George is\nhere. He's got to tell Isabel the whole thing now, and you wanted to go\nin there interfering--God knows what! You stay here and let her brother\ntell her; he's got some consideration for her!\"\n\n\"I suppose you think I haven't!\" George said, challenging her, and at\nthat Fanny laughed witheringly.\n\n\"You! Considerate of anybody!\"\n\n\"I'm considerate of her good name!\" he said hotly. \"It seems to me\nthat's about the first thing to be considerate of, in being considerate\nof a person! And look here: it strikes me you're taking a pretty\ndifferent tack from what you did yesterday afternoon!\"\n\nFanny wrung her hands. \"I did a terrible thing!\" she lamented. \"Now that\nit's done and too late I know what it was! I didn't have sense enough\njust to let things go on. I didn't have any business to interfere, and I\ndidn't mean to interfere--I only wanted to talk, and let out a little! I\ndid think you already knew everything I told you. I did! And I'd rather\nhave cut my hand off than stir you up to doing what you have done! I was\njust suffering so that I wanted to let out a little--I didn't mean any\nreal harm. But now I see what's happened--oh, I was a fool! I hadn't any\nbusiness interfering. Eugene never would have looked at me, anyhow, and,\noh, why couldn't I have seen that before! He never came here a single\ntime in his life except on her account, never! and I might have let them\nalone, because he wouldn't have looked at me even if he'd never seen\nIsabel. And they haven't done any harm: she made Wilbur happy, and she\nwas a true wife to him as long as he lived. It wasn't a crime for her to\ncare for Eugene all the time; she certainly never told him she did--and\nshe gave me every chance in the world! She left us alone together every\ntime she could--even since Wilbur died--but what was the use? And here\nI go, not doing myself a bit of good by it, and just\"--Fanny wrung her\nhands again--\"just ruining them!\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean I'm doing that,\" George said bitterly.\n\n\"Yes, I do!\" she sobbed, and drooped upon the stairway railing,\nexhausted.\n\n\"On the contrary, I mean to save my mother from a calamity.\"\n\nFanny looked at him wanly, in a tired despair; then she stepped by him\nand went slowly to her own door, where she paused and beckoned to him.\n\n\"What do you want?\"\n\n\"Just come here a minute.\"\n\n\"What for?\" he asked impatiently.\n\n\"I just wanted to say something to you.\"\n\n\"Well, for heaven's sake, say it! There's nobody to hear.\" Nevertheless,\nafter a moment, as she beckoned him again, he went to her, profoundly\nannoyed. \"Well, what is it?\"\n\n\"George,\" she said in a low voice, \"I think you ought to be told\nsomething. If I were you, I'd let my mother alone.\"\n\n\"Oh, my Lord!\" he groaned. \"I'm doing these things for her, not against\nher!\"\n\nA mildness had come upon Fanny, and she had controlled her weeping. She\nshook her head gently. \"No, I'd let her alone if I were you. I don't\nthink she's very well, George.\"\n\n\"She! I never saw a healthier person in my life.\"\n\n\"No. She doesn't let anybody know, but she goes to the doctor\nregularly.\"\n\n\"Women are always going to doctors regularly.\"\n\n\"No. He told her to.\"\n\nGeorge was not impressed. \"It's nothing at all; she spoke of it to me\nyears ago--some kind of family failing. She said grandfather had it,\ntoo; and look at him! Hasn't proved very serious with him! You act as if\nI'd done something wrong in sending that man about his business, and as\nif I were going to persecute my mother, instead of protecting her. By\nJove, it's sickening! You told me how all the riffraff in town were busy\nwith her name, and then the minute I lift my hand to protect her, you\nbegin to attack me and--\"\n\n\"Sh!\" Fanny checked him, laying her hand on his arm. \"Your uncle is\ngoing.\"\n\nThe library doors were heard opening, and a moment later there came the\nsound of the front door closing.\n\nGeorge moved toward the head of the stairs, then stood listening; but\nthe house was silent.\n\nFanny made a slight noise with her lips to attract his attention, and,\nwhen he glanced toward her, shook her head at him urgently. \"Let her\nalone,\" she whispered. \"She's down there by herself. Don't go down. Let\nher alone.\"\n\nShe moved a few steps toward him and halted, her face pallid and\nawestruck, and then both stood listening for anything that might break\nthe silence downstairs. No sound came to them; that poignant silence was\ncontinued throughout long, long minutes, while the two listeners\nstood there under its mysterious spell; and in its plaintive\neloquence--speaking, as it did, of the figure alone in the big,\ndark library, where dead Wilbur's new silver frame gleamed in the\ndimness--there was something that checked even George.\n\nAbove the aunt and nephew, as they kept this strange vigil, there was\na triple window of stained glass, to illumine the landing and upper\nreaches of the stairway. Figures in blue and amber garments posed\ngracefully in panels, conceived by some craftsman of the Eighties to\nrepresent Love and Purity and Beauty, and these figures, leaded to\nunalterable attitudes, were little more motionless than the two human\nbeings upon whom fell the mottled faint light of the window. The colours\nwere growing dull; evening was coming on.\n\nFanny Minafer broke the long silence with a sound from her throat, a\nstilled gasp; and with that great companion of hers, her handkerchief,\nretired softly to the loneliness of her own chamber. After she had gone\nGeorge looked about him bleakly, then on tiptoe crossed the hall and\nwent into his own room, which was filled with twilight. Still tiptoeing,\nthough he could not have said why, he went across the room and sat down\nheavily in a chair facing the window. Outside there was nothing but the\ndarkening air and the wall of the nearest of the new houses. He had\nnot slept at all, the night before, and he had eaten nothing since the\npreceding day at lunch, but he felt neither drowsiness nor hunger. His\nset determination filled him, kept him but too wide awake, and his gaze\nat the grayness beyond the window was wide-eyed and bitter.\n\nDarkness had closed in when there was a step in the room behind him.\nThen someone knelt beside the chair, two arms went round him with\ninfinite compassion, a gentle head rested against his shoulder, and\nthere came the faint scent as of apple-blossoms far away.\n\n\"You mustn't be troubled, darling,\" his mother whispered.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVI\n\n\nGeorge choked. For an instant he was on the point of breaking down, but\nhe commanded himself, bravely dismissing the self-pity roused by her\ncompassion. \"How can I help but be?\" he said.\n\n\"No, no.\" She soothed him. \"You mustn't. You mustn't be troubled, no\nmatter what happens.\"\n\n\"That's easy enough to say!\" he protested; and he moved as if to rise.\n\n\"Just let's stay like this a little while, dear. Just a minute or two.\nI want to tell you: brother George has been here, and he told me\neverything about--about how unhappy you'd been--and how you went so\ngallantly to that old woman with the operaglasses.\" Isabel gave a sad\nlittle laugh. \"What a terrible old woman she is! What a really terrible\nthing a vulgar old woman can be!\"\n\n\"Mother, I--\" And again he moved to rise.\n\n\"Must you? It seemed to me such a comfortable way to talk. Well--\" She\nyielded; he rose, helped her to her feet, and pressed the light into\nbeing.\n\nAs the room took life from the sudden lines of fire within the bulbs\nIsabel made a deprecatory gesture, and, with a faint laugh of apologetic\nprotest, turned quickly away from George. What she meant was: \"You\nmustn't see my face until I've made it nicer for you.\" Then she turned\nagain to him, her eyes downcast, but no sign of tears in them, and she\ncontrived to show him that there was the semblance of a smile upon her\nlips. She still wore her hat, and in her unsteady fingers she held a\nwhite envelope, somewhat crumpled.\n\n\"Now, mother--\"\n\n\"Wait, dearest,\" she said; and though he stood stone cold, she lifted\nher arms, put them round him again, and pressed her cheek lightly to\nhis. \"Oh, you do look so troubled, poor dear! One thing you couldn't\ndoubt, beloved boy: you know I could never care for anything in the\nworld as I care for you--never, never!\"\n\n\"Now, mother--\"\n\nShe released him, and stepped back. \"Just a moment more, dearest. I want\nyou to read this first. We can get at things better.\" She pressed into\nhis hand the envelope she had brought with her, and as he opened it, and\nbegan to read the long enclosure, she walked slowly to the other end of\nthe room; then stood there, with her back to him, and her head drooping\na little, until he had finished.\n\nThe sheets of paper were covered with Eugene's handwriting.\n\nGeorge Amberson will bring you this, dear Isabel. He is waiting while I\nwrite. He and I have talked things over, and before he gives this to you\nhe will tell you what has happened. Of course I'm rather confused, and\nhaven't had time to think matters out very definitely, and yet I believe\nI should have been better prepared for what took place to-day--I ought\nto have known it was coming, because I have understood for quite a long\ntime that young George was getting to dislike me more and more. Somehow,\nI've never been able to get his friendship; he's always had a latent\ndistrust of me--or something like distrust--and perhaps that's made me\nsometimes a little awkward and diffident with him. I think it may be\nhe felt from the first that I cared a great deal about you, and he\nnaturally resented it. I think perhaps he felt this even during all the\ntime when I was so careful--at least I thought I was--not to show, even\nto you, how immensely I did care. And he may have feared that you were\nthinking too much about me--even when you weren't and only liked me as\nan old friend. It's perfectly comprehensible to me, also, that at his\nage one gets excited about gossip. Dear Isabel, what I'm trying to\nget at, in my confused way, is that you and I don't care about this\nnonsensical gossip, ourselves, at all. Yesterday I thought the time had\ncome when I could ask you to marry me, and you were dear enough to tell\nme \"sometime it might come to that.\" Well, you and I, left to ourselves,\nand knowing what we have been and what we are, we'd pay as much\nattention to \"talk\" as we would to any other kind of old cats' mewing!\nWe'd not be very apt to let such things keep us from the plenty of life\nwe have left to us for making up to ourselves for old unhappinesses and\nmistakes. But now we're faced with--not the slander and not our own\nfear of it, because we haven't any, but someone else's fear of it--your\nson's. And, oh, dearest woman in the world, I know what your son is to\nyou, and it frightens me! Let me explain a little: I don't think he'll\nchange--at twenty-one or twenty-two so many things appear solid and\npermanent and terrible which forty sees are nothing but disappearing\nmiasma. Forty can't tell twenty about this; that's the pity of it!\nTwenty can find out only by getting to be forty. And so we come to this,\ndear: Will you live your own life your way, or George's way? I'm going\na little further, because it would be fatal not to be wholly frank\nnow. George will act toward you only as your long worship of him, your\nsacrifices--all the unseen little ones every day since he was born--will\nmake him act. Dear, it breaks my heart for you, but what you have to\noppose now is the history of your own selfless and perfect motherhood. I\nremember saying once that what you worshipped in your son was the angel\nyou saw in him--and I still believe that is true of every mother. But in\na mother's worship she may not see that the Will in her son should not\nalways be offered incense along with the angel. I grow sick with fear\nfor you--for both you and me--when I think how the Will against us two\nhas grown strong through the love you have given the angel--and how\nlong your own sweet Will has served that other. Are you strong enough,\nIsabel? Can you make the fight? I promise you that if you will take\nheart for it, you will find so quickly that it has all amounted\nto nothing. You shall have happiness, and, in a little while, only\nhappiness. You need only to write me a line--I can't come to your\nhouse--and tell me where you will meet me. We will come back in a month,\nand the angel in your son will bring him to you; I promise it. What\nis good in him will grow so fine, once you have beaten the turbulent\nWill--but it must be beaten!\n\nYour brother, that good friend, is waiting with such patience; I should\nnot keep him longer--and I am saying too much for wisdom, I fear. But,\noh, my dear, won't you be strong--such a little short strength it would\nneed! Don't strike my life down twice, dear--this time I've not deserved\nit.                                  Eugene.\n\nConcluding this missive, George tossed it abruptly from him so that one\nsheet fell upon his bed and the others upon the floor; and at the faint\nnoise of their falling Isabel came, and, kneeling, began to gather them\nup.\n\n\"Did you read it, dear?\"\n\nGeorge's face was pale no longer, but pink with fury. \"Yes, I did.\"\n\n\"All of it?\" she asked gently, as she rose.\n\n\"Certainly!\"\n\nShe did not look at him, but kept her eyes downcast upon the letter in\nher hands, tremulously rearranging the sheets in order as she spoke--and\nthough she smiled, her smile was as tremulous as her hands. Nervousness\nand an irresistible timidity possessed her. \"I--I wanted to say,\nGeorge,\" she faltered. \"I felt that if--if some day it should happen--I\nmean, if you came to feel differently about it, and Eugene and I--that\nis if we found that it seemed the most sensible thing to do--I was\nafraid you might think it would be a little queer about--Lucy, I mean\nif--if she were your step-sister. Of course, she'd not be even legally\nrelated to you, and if you--if you cared for her--\"\n\nThus far she got stumblingly with what she wanted to say, while George\nwatched her with a gaze that grew harder and hotter; but here he cut her\noff. \"I have already given up all idea of Lucy,\" he said. \"Naturally,\nI couldn't have treated her father as I deliberately did treat him--I\ncould hardly have done that and expected his daughter ever to speak to\nme again.\"\n\nIsabel gave a quick cry of compassion, but he allowed her no opportunity\nto speak. \"You needn't think I'm making any particular sacrifice,\" he\nsaid sharply, \"though I would, quickly enough, if I thought it necessary\nin a matter of honour like this. I was interested in her, and I could\neven say I did care for her; but she proved pretty satisfactorily that\nshe cared little enough about me! She went away right in the midst of\na--of a difference of opinion we were having; she didn't even let me\nknow she was going, and never wrote a line to me, and then came back\ntelling everybody she'd had 'a perfectly gorgeous time!' That's quite\nenough for me. I'm not precisely the sort to arrange for that kind of\nthing to be done to me more than once! The truth is, we're not congenial\nand we'd found that much out, at least, before she left. We should\nnever have been happy; she was 'superior' all the time, and critical of\nme--not very pleasant, that! I was disappointed in her, and I might as\nwell say it. I don't think she has the very deepest nature in the world,\nand--\"\n\nBut Isabel put her hand timidly on his arm. \"Georgie, dear, this is only\na quarrel: all young people have them before they get adjusted, and you\nmustn't let--\"\n\n\"If you please!\" he said emphatically, moving back from her. \"This isn't\nthat kind. It's all over, and I don't care to speak of it again. It's\nsettled. Don't you understand?\"\n\n\"But, dear--\"\n\n\"No. I want to talk to you about this letter of her father's.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear, that's why--\"\n\n\"It's simply the most offensive piece of writing that I've ever held in\nmy hands!\"\n\nShe stepped back from him, startled. \"But, dear, I thought--\"\n\n\"I can't understand your even showing me such a thing!\" he cried. \"How\ndid you happen to bring it to me?\"\n\n\"Your uncle thought I'd better. He thought it was the simplest thing to\ndo, and he said that he'd suggested it to Eugene, and Eugene had agreed.\nThey thought--\"\n\n\"Yes!\" George said bitterly. \"I should like to hear what they thought!\"\n\n\"They thought it would be the most straightforward thing.\"\n\nGeorge drew a long breath. \"Well, what do you think, mother?\"\n\n\"I thought it would be the simplest and most straightforward thing; I\nthought they were right.\"\n\n\"Very well! We'll agree it was simple and straightforward. Now, what do\nyou think of that letter itself?\"\n\nShe hesitated, looking away. \"I--of course I don't agree with him in the\nway he speaks of you, dear--except about the angel! I don't agree with\nsome of the things he implies. You've always been unselfish--nobody\nknows that better than your mother. When Fanny was left with nothing,\nyou were so quick and generous to give up what really should have come\nto you, and--\"\n\n\"And yet,\" George broke in, \"you see what he implies about me. Don't you\nthink, really, that this was a pretty insulting letter for that man to\nbe asking you to hand your son?\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" she cried. \"You can see how fair he means to be, and he didn't\nask for me to give it to you. It was brother George who--\"\n\n\"Never mind that, now! You say he tries to be fair, and yet do you\nsuppose it ever occurs to him that I'm doing my simple duty? That I'm\ndoing what my father would do if he were alive? That I'm doing what my\nfather would ask me to do if he could speak from his grave out yonder?\nDo you suppose it ever occurs to that man for one minute that I'm\nprotecting my mother?\" George raised his voice, advancing upon the\nhelpless lady fiercely; and she could only bend her head before him. \"He\ntalks about my 'Will'--how it must be beaten down; yes, and he asks my\nmother to do that little thing to please him! What for? Why does he want\nme 'beaten' by my mother? Because I'm trying to protect her name! He's\ngot my mother's name bandied up and down the streets of this town till I\ncan't step in those streets without wondering what every soul I meet is\nthinking of me and of my family, and now he wants you to marry him so\nthat every gossip in town will say 'There! What did I tell you? I guess\nthat proves it's true!' You can't get away from it; that's exactly what\nthey'd say, and this man pretends he cares for you, and yet asks you to\nmarry him and give them the right to say it. He says he and you don't\ncare what they say, but I know better! He may not care--probably he's\nthat kind--but you do. There never was an Amberson yet that would let\nthe Amberson name go trailing in the dust like that! It's the proudest\nname in this town and it's going to stay the proudest; and I tell you\nthat's the deepest thing in my nature--not that I'd expect Eugene Morgan\nto understand--the very deepest thing in my nature is to protect that\nname, and to fight for it to the last breath when danger threatens it,\nas it does now--through my mother!\" He turned from her, striding up\nand down and tossing his arms about, in a tumult of gesture. \"I can't\nbelieve it of you, that you'd think of such a sacrilege! That's what it\nwould be--sacrilege! When he talks about your unselfishness toward me,\nhe's right--you have been unselfish and you have been a perfect mother.\nBut what about him? Is it unselfish of him to want you to throw away\nyour good name just to please him? That's all he asks of you--and to\nquit being my mother! Do you think I can believe you really care for\nhim? I don't! You are my mother and you're an Amberson--and I believe\nyou're too proud! You're too proud to care for a man who could write\nsuch a letter as that!\" He stopped, faced her, and spoke with more\nself-control: \"Well, what are you going to do about it, mother?\"\n\nGeorge was right about his mother's being proud. And even when she\nlaughed with a negro gardener, or even those few times in her life\nwhen people saw her weep, Isabel had a proud look--something that was\nindependent and graceful and strong. But she did not have it now: she\nleaned against the wall, beside his dressing-table, and seemed beset\nwith humility and with weakness. Her head drooped.\n\n\"What answer are you going to make to such a letter?\" George demanded,\nlike a judge on the bench.\n\n\"I--I don't quite know, dear,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Wait,\" she begged him. \"I'm so--confused.\"\n\n\"I want to know what you're going to write him. Do you think if you\ndid what he wants you to I could bear to stay another day in this town,\nmother? Do you think I could ever bear even to see you again if you\nmarried him? I'd want to, but you surely know I just--couldn't!\"\n\nShe made a futile gesture, and seemed to breathe with difficulty. \"I--I\nwasn't--quite sure,\" she faltered, \"about--about it's being wise for us\nto be married--even before knowing how you feel about it. I wasn't even\nsure it was quite fair to--to Eugene. I have--I seem to have that family\ntrouble--like father's--that I spoke to you about once.\" She managed a\ndeprecatory little dry laugh. \"Not that it amounts to much, but I wasn't\nat all sure that it would be fair to him. Marrying doesn't mean so much,\nafter all--not at my age. It's enough to know that--that people think\nof you--and to see them. I thought we were all--oh, pretty happy the way\nthings were, and I don't think it would mean giving up a great deal\nfor him or me, either, if we just went on as we have been. I--I see him\nalmost every day, and--\"\n\n\"Mother!\" George's voice was loud and stern. \"Do you think you could go\non seeing him after this!\"\n\nShe had been talking helplessly enough before; her tone was little more\nbroken now. \"Not--not even--see him?\"\n\n\"How could you?\" George cried. \"Mother, it seems to me that if he ever\nset foot in this house again--oh! I can't speak of it! Could you see\nhim, knowing what talk it makes every time he turns into this street,\nand knowing what that means to me? Oh, I don't understand all this--I\ndon't! If you'd told me, a year ago, that such things were going to\nhappen, I'd have thought you were insane--and now I believe I am!\"\n\nThen, after a preliminary gesture of despair, as though he meant harm to\nthe ceiling, he flung himself heavily, face downward, upon the bed. His\nanguish was none the less real for its vehemence; and the stricken lady\ncame to him instantly and bent over him, once more enfolding him in her\narms. She said nothing, but suddenly her tears fell upon his head; she\nsaw them, and seemed to be startled.\n\n\"Oh, this won't do!\" she said. \"I've never let you see me cry before,\nexcept when your father died. I mustn't!\"\n\nAnd she ran from the room.\n\n...A little while after she had gone, George rose and began solemnly to\ndress for dinner. At one stage of these conscientious proceedings he put\non, temporarily, his long black velvet dressing-gown, and, happening\nto catch sight in his pier glass of the picturesque and medieval\nfigure thus presented, he paused to regard it; and something profoundly\ntheatrical in his nature came to the surface.\n\nHis lips moved; he whispered, half-aloud, some famous fragments:\n\n\"Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn\nblack...\"\n\nFor, in truth, the mirrored princely image, with hair dishevelled on the\nwhite brow, and the long tragic fall of black velvet from the shoulders,\nhad brought about (in his thought at least) some comparisons of his own\ntimes, so out of joint, with those of that other gentle prince and heir\nwhose widowed mother was minded to marry again.\n\n\"But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and\nthe suits of Woe.\"\n\nNot less like Hamlet did he feel and look as he sat gauntly at the\ndinner table with Fanny to partake of a meal throughout which neither\nspoke. Isabel had sent word \"not to wait\" for her, an injunction it was\nas well they obeyed, for she did not come at all. But with the renewal\nof sustenance furnished to his system, some relaxation must have\noccurred within the high-strung George. Dinner was not quite finished\nwhen, without warning, sleep hit him hard. His burning eyes could no\nlonger restrain the lids above them; his head sagged beyond control; and\nhe got to his feet, and went lurching upstairs, yawning with exhaustion.\nFrom the door of his room, which he closed mechanically, with his eyes\nshut, he went blindly to his bed, fell upon it soddenly, and slept--with\nhis face full upturned to the light.\n\nIt was after midnight when he woke, and the room was dark. He had not\ndreamed, but he woke with the sense that somebody or something had been\nwith him while he slept--somebody or something infinitely compassionate;\nsomebody or something infinitely protective, that would let him come to\nno harm and to no grief.\n\nHe got up, and pressed the light on. Pinned to the cover of his\ndressing-table was a square envelope, with the words, \"For you, dear,\"\nwritten in pencil upon it. But the message inside was in ink, a little\nsmudged here and there.\n\nI have been out to the mail-box, darling, with a letter I've written to\nEugene, and he'll have it in the morning. It would be unfair not to let\nhim know at once, and my decision could not change if I waited. It would\nalways be the same. I think it, is a little better for me to write to\nyou, like this, instead of waiting till you wake up and then telling\nyou, because I'm foolish and might cry again, and I took a vow once,\nlong ago, that you should never see me cry. Not that I'll feel like\ncrying when we talk things over tomorrow. I'll be \"all right and fine\"\n(as you say so often) by that time--don't fear. I think what makes me\nmost ready to cry now is the thought of the terrible suffering in your\npoor face, and the unhappy knowledge that it is I, your mother who put\nit there. It shall never come again! I love you better than anything\nand everything else on earth. God gave you to me--and oh! how thankful\nI have been every day of my life for that sacred gift--and nothing can\never come between me and God's gift. I cannot hurt you, and I cannot let\nyou stay hurt as you have been--not another instant after you wake up,\nmy darling boy! It is beyond my power. And Eugene was right--I know you\ncouldn't change about this. Your suffering shows how deep-seated the\nfeeling is within you. So I've written him just about what I think you\nwould like me to--though I told him I would always be fond of him and\nalways his best friend, and I hoped his dearest friend. He'll understand\nabout not seeing him. He'll understand that, though I didn't say it\nin so many words. You mustn't trouble about that--he'll understand.\nGood-night, my darling, my beloved, my beloved! You mustn't be troubled.\nI think I shouldn't mind anything very much so long as I have you \"all\nto myself\"--as people say--to make up for your long years away from me\nat college. We'll talk of what's best to do in the morning, shan't we?\nAnd for all this pain you'll forgive your loving and devoted mother.\n\nIsabel.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVII\n\n\nHaving finished some errands downtown, the next afternoon, George\nAmberson Minafer was walking up National Avenue on his homeward way when\nhe saw in the distance, coming toward him, upon the same side of the\nstreet, the figure of a young lady--a figure just under the middle\nheight, comely indeed, and to be mistaken for none other in the\nworld--even at two hundred yards. To his sharp discomfiture his heart\nimmediately forced upon him the consciousness of its acceleration; a\nsudden warmth about his neck made him aware that he had turned red,\nand then, departing, left him pale. For a panicky moment he thought of\nfacing about in actual flight; he had little doubt that Lucy would\nmeet him with no token of recognition, and all at once this probability\nstruck him as unendurable. And if she did not speak, was it the proper\npart of chivalry to lift his hat and take the cut bareheaded? Or should\nthe finer gentleman acquiesce in the lady's desire for no further\nacquaintance, and pass her with stony mien and eyes constrained forward?\nGeorge was a young man badly flustered.\n\nBut the girl approaching him was unaware of his trepidation, being\nperhaps somewhat preoccupied with her own. She saw only that he was\npale, and that his eyes were darkly circled. But here he was advantaged\nwith her, for the finest touch to his good looks was given by this\ntoning down; neither pallor nor dark circles detracting from them, but\nrather adding to them a melancholy favour of distinction. George had\nretained his mourning, a tribute completed down to the final details of\nblack gloves and a polished ebony cane (which he would have been pained\nto name otherwise than as a \"walking-stick\") and in the aura of this\nsombre elegance his straight figure and drawn face were not without a\ntristful and appealing dignity.\n\nIn everything outward he was cause enough for a girl's cheek to flush,\nher heart to beat faster, and her eyes to warm with the soft light that\ncame into Lucy's now, whether she would or no. If his spirit had been\nwhat his looks proclaimed it, she would have rejoiced to let the light\nglow forth which now shone in spite of her. For a long time, thinking of\nthat spirit of his, and what she felt it should be, she had a persistent\nsense: \"It must be there!\" but she had determined to believe this folly\nno longer. Nevertheless, when she met him at the Sharons', she had been\nfar less calm than she seemed.\n\nPeople speaking casually of Lucy were apt to define her as \"a little\nbeauty,\" a definition short of the mark. She was \"a little beauty,\" but\nan independent, masterful, sell-reliant little American, of whom her\nfather's earlier gipsyings and her own sturdiness had made a woman ever\nsince she was fifteen. But though she was the mistress of her own ways\nand no slave to any lamp save that of her own conscience, she had a\nweakness: she had fallen in love with George Amberson Minafer at first\nsight, and no matter how she disciplined herself, she had never been\nable to climb out. The thing had happened to her; that was all. George\nhad looked just the way she had always wanted someone to look--the\nriskiest of all the moonshine ambushes wherein tricky romance snares\ncredulous young love. But what was fatal to Lucy was that this thing\nhaving happened to her, she could not change it. No matter what she\ndiscovered in George's nature she was unable to take away what she had\ngiven him; and though she could think differently about him, she could\nnot feel differently about him, for she was one of those too faithful\nvictims of glamour. When she managed to keep the picture of George away\nfrom her mind's eye, she did well enough; but when she let him become\nvisible, she could not choose but love what she disdained. She was a\nlittle angel who had fallen in love with high-handed Lucifer; quite an\nexperience, and not apt to be soon succeeded by any falling in love with\na tamer party--and the unhappy truth was that George did make better men\nseem tame. But though she was a victim, she was a heroic one, anything\nbut helpless.\n\nAs they drew nearer, George tried to prepare himself to meet her with\nsome remnants of aplomb. He decided that he would keep on looking\nstraight ahead, and lift his hand toward his hat at the very last moment\nwhen it would be possible for her to see him out of the corner of her\neye: then when she thought it over later, she would not be sure whether\nhe had saluted her or merely rubbed his forehead. And there was the\nadded benefit that any third person who might chance to look from\na window, or from a passing carriage, would not think that he was\nreceiving a snub, because he did not intend to lift his hat, but, timing\nthe gesture properly, would in fact actually rub his forehead. These\nwere the hasty plans which occupied his thoughts until he was within\nabout fifty feet of her--when he ceased to have either plans or\nthoughts, he had kept his eyes from looking full at her until then, and\nas he saw her, thus close at hand, and coming nearer, a regret that was\ndumfounding took possession of him. For the first time he had the sense\nof having lost something of overwhelming importance.\n\nLucy did not keep to the right, but came straight to meet him, smiling,\nand with her hand offered to him.\n\n\"Why--you--\" he stammered, as he took it. \"Haven't you--\" What he meant\nto say was, \"Haven't you heard?\"\n\n\"Haven't I what?\" she asked; and he saw that Eugene had not yet told\nher.\n\n\"Nothing!\" he gasped. \"May I--may I turn and walk with you a little\nway?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed!\" she said cordially.\n\nHe would not have altered what had been done: he was satisfied with all\nthat--satisfied that it was right, and that his own course was right.\nBut he began to perceive a striking inaccuracy in some remarks he had\nmade to his mother. Now when he had put matters in such shape that even\nby the relinquishment of his \"ideals of life\" he could not have Lucy,\nknew that he could never have her, and knew that when Eugene told\nher the history of yesterday he could not have a glance or word even\nfriendly from her--now when he must in good truth \"give up all idea\nof Lucy,\" he was amazed that he could have used such words as \"no\nparticular sacrifice,\" and believed them when he said them! She had\nlooked never in his life so bewitchingly pretty as she did today; and as\nhe walked beside her he was sure that she was the most exquisite thing\nin the world.\n\n\"Lucy,\" he said huskily, \"I want to tell you something. Something that\nmatters.\"\n\n\"I hope it's a lively something then,\" she said; and laughed. \"Papa's\nbeen so glum to-day he's scarcely spoken to me. Your Uncle George\nAmberson came to see him an hour ago and they shut themselves up in the\nlibrary, and your uncle looked as glum as papa. I'd be glad if you'll\ntell me a funny story, George.\"\n\n\"Well, it may seem one to you,\" he said bitterly, \"Just to begin with:\nwhen you went away you didn't let me know; not even a word--not a\nline--\"\n\nHer manner persisted in being inconsequent. \"Why, no,\" she said. \"I just\ntrotted off for some visits.\"\n\n\"Well, at least you might have--\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" she said again briskly. \"Don't you remember, George? We'd had\na grand quarrel, and didn't speak to each other all the way home from a\nlong, long drive! So, as we couldn't play together like good children,\nof course it was plain that we oughtn't to play at all.\"\n\n\"Play!\" he cried.\n\n\"Yes. What I mean is that we'd come to the point where it was time to\nquit playing--well, what we were playing.\"\n\n\"At being lovers, you mean, don't you?\"\n\n\"Something like that,\" she said lightly. \"For us two, playing at being\nlovers was just the same as playing at cross-purposes. I had all the\npurposes, and that gave you all the crossness: things weren't getting\nalong at all. It was absurd!\"\n\n\"Well, have it your own way,\" he said. \"It needn't have been absurd.\"\n\n\"No, it couldn't help but be!\" she informed him cheerfully. \"The way I\nam and the way you are, it couldn't ever be anything else. So what was\nthe use?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he sighed, and his sigh was abysmal. \"But what I wanted\nto tell you is this: when you went away, you didn't let me know and\ndidn't care how or when I heard it, but I'm not like that with you. This\ntime, I'm going away. That's what I wanted to tell you. I'm going away\ntomorrow night--indefinitely.\"\n\nShe nodded sunnily. \"That's nice for you. I hope you'll have ever so\njolly a time, George.\"\n\n\"I don't expect to have a particularly jolly time.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" she laughed, \"if I were you I don't think I'd go.\"\n\nIt seemed impossible to impress this distracting creature, to make her\nserious. \"Lucy,\" he said desperately, \"this is our last walk together.\"\n\n\"Evidently!\" she said, \"if you're going away tomorrow night.\"\n\n\"Lucy--this may be the last time I'll see you--ever--ever in my life.\"\n\nAt that she looked at him quickly, across her shoulder, but she smiled\nas brightly as before, and with the same cordial inconsequence: \"Oh, I\ncan hardly think that!\" she said. \"And of course I'd be awfully sorry to\nthink it. You're not moving away, are you, to live?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And even if you were, of course you'd be coming back to visit your\nrelatives every now and then.\"\n\n\"I don't know when I'm coming back. Mother and I are starting to-morrow\nnight for a trip around the world.\"\n\nAt this she did look thoughtful. \"Your mother is going with you?\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" he groaned. \"Lucy, doesn't it make any difference to you\nthat I am going?\"\n\nAt this her cordial smile instantly appeared again. \"Yes, of course,\"\nshe said. \"I'm sure I'll miss you ever so much. Are you to be gone\nlong?\"\n\nHe stared at her wanly. \"I told you indefinitely,\" he said. \"We've made\nno plans--at all--for coming back.\"\n\n\"That does sound like a long trip!\" she exclaimed admiringly. \"Do you\nplan to be travelling all the time, or will you stay in some one place\nthe greater part of it? I think it would be lovely to--\"\n\n\"Lucy!\"\n\nHe halted; and she stopped with him. They had come to a corner at the\nedge of the \"business section\" of the city, and people were everywhere\nabout them, brushing against them, sometimes, in passing.\n\n\"I can't stand this,\" George said, in a low voice. \"I'm just about ready\nto go in this drug-store here, and ask the clerk for something to keep\nme from dying in my tracks! It's quite a shock, you see, Lucy!\"\n\n\"What is?\"\n\n\"To find out certainly, at last, how deeply you've cared for me! To see\nhow much difference this makes to you! By Jove, I have mattered to you!\"\n\nHer cordial smile was tempered now with good-nature. \"George!\" She\nlaughed indulgently. \"Surely you don't want me to do pathos on a\ndowntown corner!\"\n\n\"You wouldn't 'do pathos' anywhere!\"\n\n\"Well--don't you think pathos is generally rather fooling?\"\n\n\"I can't stand this any longer,\" he said. \"I can't! Good-bye, Lucy!\" He\ntook her hand. \"It's good-bye--I think it's good-bye for good, Lucy!\"\n\n\"Good-bye! I do hope you'll have the most splendid trip.\" She gave his\nhand a cordial little grip, then released it lightly. \"Give my love to\nyour mother. Good-bye!\"\n\nHe turned heavily away, and a moment later glanced back over his\nshoulder. She had not gone on, but stood watching him, that same casual,\ncordial smile on her face to the very last; and now, as he looked back,\nshe emphasized her friendly unconcern by waving her small hand to him\ncheerily, though perhaps with the slightest hint of preoccupation, as if\nshe had begun to think of the errand that brought her downtown.\n\nIn his mind, George had already explained her to his own poignant\ndissatisfaction--some blond pup, probably, whom she had met during that\n\"perfectly gorgeous time!\" And he strode savagely onward, not looking\nback again.\n\nBut Lucy remained where she was until he was out of sight. Then she went\nslowly into the drugstore which had struck George as a possible source\nof stimulant for himself.\n\n\"Please let me have a few drops of aromatic spirits of ammonia in a\nglass of water,\" she said, with the utmost composure.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am!\" said the impressionable clerk, who had been looking at her\nthrough the display window as she stood on the corner.\n\nBut a moment later, as he turned from the shelves of glass jars against\nthe wall, with the potion she had asked for in his hand, he uttered an\nexclamation: \"For goshes' sake, Miss!\" And, describing this adventure to\nhis fellow-boarders, that evening, \"Sagged pretty near to the counter,\nshe was,\" he said. \"If I hadn't been a bright, quick, ready-for-anything\nyoung fella she'd 'a' flummixed plum! I was watchin' her out the\nwindow--talkin' to some young s'iety fella, and she was all right\nthen. She was all right when she come in the store, too. Yes, sir; the\nprettiest girl that ever walked in our place and took one good look at\nme. I reckon it must be the truth what some you town wags say about my\nface!\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVIII\n\n\nAt that hour the heroine of the susceptible clerk's romance was engaged\nin brightening the rosy little coal fire under the white mantelpiece\nin her pretty white-and-blue boudoir. Four photographs all framed\nin decorous plain silver went to the anthracite's fierce\ndestruction--frames and all--and three packets of letters and notes in\na charming Florentine treasure-box of painted wood; nor was the box, any\nmore than the silver frames, spared this rousing finish. Thrown heartily\nupon live coal, the fine wood sparkled forth in stars, then burst into\nan alarming blaze which scorched the white mantelpiece, but Lucy stood\nand looked on without moving.\n\nIt was not Eugene who told her what had happened at Isabel's door.\nWhen she got home, she found Fanny Minafer waiting for her--a secret\nexcursion of Fanny's for the purpose, presumably, of \"letting out\"\nagain; because that was what she did. She told Lucy everything (except\nher own lamentable part in the production of the recent miseries) and\nconcluded with a tribute to George: \"The worst of it is, he thinks he's\nbeen such a hero, and Isabel does, too, and that makes him more than\ntwice as awful. It's been the same all his life: everything he did was\nnoble and perfect. He had a domineering nature to begin with, and she\nlet it go on, and fostered it till it absolutely ruled her. I never saw\na plainer case of a person's fault making them pay for having it! She\ngoes about, overseeing the packing and praising George and pretending\nto be perfectly cheerful about what he's making her do and about the\ndreadful things he's done. She pretends he did such a fine thing--so\nmanly and protective--going to Mrs. Johnson. And so heroic--doing what\nhis 'principles' made him--even though he knew what it would cost him\nwith you! And all the while it's almost killing her--what he said to\nyour father! She's always been lofty enough, so to speak, and had the\ngreatest idea of the Ambersons being superior to the rest of the world,\nand all that, but rudeness, or anything like a 'scene,' or any bad\nmanners--they always just made her sick! But she could never see what\nGeorge's manners were--oh, it's been a terrible adulation!... It's going\nto be a task for me, living in that big house, all alone: you must come\nand see me--I mean after they've gone, of course. I'll go crazy if I\ndon't see something of people. I'm sure you'll come as often as you can.\nI know you too well to think you'll be sensitive about coming there, or\nbeing reminded of George. Thank heaven you're too well-balanced,\" Miss\nFanny concluded, with a profound fervour, \"you're too well-balanced to\nlet anything affect you deeply about that--that monkey!\"\n\nThe four photographs and the painted Florentine box went to their\ncremation within the same hour that Miss Fanny spoke; and a little later\nLucy called her father in, as he passed her door, and pointed to the\nblackened area on the underside of the mantelpiece, and to the burnt\nheap upon the coal, where some metallic shapes still retained outline.\nShe flung her arms about his neck in passionate sympathy, telling\nhim that she knew what had happened to him; and presently he began to\ncomfort her and managed an embarrassed laugh.\n\n\"Well, well--\" he said. \"I was too old for such foolishness to be\ngetting into my head, anyhow.\"\n\n\"No, no!\" she sobbed. \"And if you knew how I despise myself for--for\never having thought one instant about--oh, Miss Fanny called him the\nright name: that monkey! He is!\"\n\n\"There, I think I agree with you,\" Eugene said grimly, and in his eyes\nthere was a steady light of anger that was to last. \"Yes, I think I\nagree with you about that!\"\n\n\"There's only one thing to do with such a person,\" she said vehemently.\n\"That's to put him out of our thoughts forever--forever!\"\n\nAnd yet, the next day, at six o'clock, which was the hour, Fanny had\ntold her, when George and his mother were to leave upon their long\njourney, Lucy touched that scorched place on her mantel with her\nhand just as the little clock above it struck. Then, after this\nodd, unconscious gesture, she went to a window and stood between the\ncurtains, looking out into the cold November dusk; and in spite of every\nreasoning and reasonable power within her, a pain of loneliness struck\nthrough her heart. The dim street below her window, the dark houses\nacross the way, the vague air itself--all looked empty, and cold and\n(most of all) uninteresting. Something more sombre than November dusk\ntook the colour from them and gave them that air of desertion.\n\nThe light of her fire, flickering up behind her showed suddenly a flying\ngroup of tiny snowflakes nearing the window-pane; and for an instant she\nfelt the sensation of being dragged through a snows drift under a\nbroken cutter, with a boy's arms about her--an arrogant, handsome,\ntoo-conquering boy, who nevertheless did his best to get hurt himself,\nkeeping her from any possible harm.\n\nShe shook the picture out of her eyes indignantly, then came and sat\nbefore her fire, and looked long and long at the blackened mantelpiece.\nShe did not have the mantelpiece repainted--and, since she did not,\nmight as well have kept his photographs. One forgets what made the scar\nupon his hand but not what made the scar upon his wall.\n\nShe played no marche funebre upon her piano, even though Chopin's\nromantic lamentation was then at the top of nine-tenths of the\nmusic-racks in the country, American youth having recently discovered\nthe distinguished congeniality between itself and this deathless bit of\ndeathly gloom. She did not even play \"Robin Adair\"; she played \"Bedelia\"\nand all the new cake-walks, for she was her father's housekeeper,\nand rightly looked upon the office as being the same as that of his\nheart-keeper. Therefore it was her affair to keep both house and heart\nin what state of cheerfulness might be contrived. She made him \"go out\"\nmore than ever; made him take her to all the gayeties of that winter,\ndeclining to go herself unless he took her, and, though Eugene danced\nno more, and quoted Shakespeare to prove all lightfoot caperings beneath\nthe dignity of his age, she broke his resolution for him at the New\nYear's Eve \"Assembly\" and half coaxed, half dragged him forth upon the\nfloor, and made him dance the New Year in with her.\n\nNew faces appeared at the dances of the winter; new faces had\nbeen appearing everywhere, for that matter, and familiar ones were\ndisappearing, merged in the increasing crowd, or gone forever and missed\na little and not long; for the town was growing and changing as it never\nhad grown and changed before.\n\nIt was heaving up in the middle incredibly; it was spreading incredibly;\nand as it heaved and spread, it befouled itself and darkened its sky.\nIts boundary was mere shapelessness on the run; a raw, new house would\nappear on a country road; four or five others would presently be built\nat intervals between it and the outskirts of the town; the country road\nwould turn into an asphalt street with a brick-faced drugstore and a\nframe grocery at a corner; then bungalows and six-room cottages would\nswiftly speckle the open green spaces--and a farm had become a suburb\nwhich would immediately shoot out other suburbs into the country, on\none side, and, on the other, join itself solidly to the city. You drove\nbetween pleasant fields and woodland groves one spring day; and in the\nautumn, passing over the same ground, you were warned off the tracks by\nan interurban trolley-car's gonging, and beheld, beyond cement sidewalks\njust dry, new house-owners busy \"moving in.\" Gasoline and electricity\nwere performing the miracles Eugene had predicted.\n\nBut the great change was in the citizenry itself. What was left of\nthe patriotic old-stock generation that had fought the Civil War, and\nsubsequently controlled politics, had become venerable and was little\nheeded. The descendants of the pioneers and early settlers were merging\ninto the new crowd, becoming part of it, little to be distinguished from\nit. What happened to Boston and to Broadway happened in degree to the\nMidland city; the old stock became less and less typical, and of the\ngrown people who called the place home, less than a third had been born\nin it. There was a German quarter; there was a Jewish quarter; there was\na negro quarter--square miles of it--called \"Bucktown\"; there were many\nIrish neighbourhoods; and there were large settlements of Italians,\nand of Hungarians, and of Rumanians, and of Serbians and other Balkan\npeoples. But not the emigrants, themselves, were the almost dominant\ntype on the streets downtown. That type was the emigrant's prosperous\noffspring: descendant of the emigrations of the Seventies and Eighties\nand Nineties, those great folk-journeyings in search not so directly\nof freedom and democracy as of more money for the same labour. A new\nMidlander--in fact, a new American--was beginning dimly to emerge.\n\nA new spirit of citizenship had already sharply defined itself. It was\nidealistic, and its ideals were expressed in the new kind of young men\nin business downtown. They were optimists--optimists to the point of\nbelligerence--their motto being \"Boost! Don't Knock!\" And they were\nhustlers, believing in hustling and in honesty because both paid. They\nloved their city and worked for it with a plutonic energy which was\nalways ardently vocal. They were viciously governed, but they sometimes\nwent so far to struggle for better government on account of the helpful\neffect of good government on the price of real estate and \"betterment\"\ngenerally; the politicians could not go too far with them, and knew\nit. The idealists planned and strove and shouted that their city should\nbecome a better, better, and better city--and what they meant, when they\nused the word \"better,\" was \"more prosperous,\" and the core of their\nidealism was this: \"The more prosperous my beloved city, the more\nprosperous beloved I!\" They had one supreme theory: that the perfect\nbeauty and happiness of cities and of human life was to be brought about\nby more factories; they had a mania for factories; there was nothing\nthey would not do to cajole a factory away from another city; and they\nwere never more piteously embittered than when another city cajoled one\naway from them.\n\nWhat they meant by Prosperity was credit at the bank; but in exchange\nfor this credit they got nothing that was not dirty, and, therefore,\nto a sane mind, valueless; since whatever was cleaned was dirty again\nbefore the cleaning was half done. For, as the town grew, it grew\ndirty with an incredible completeness. The idealists put up magnificent\nbusiness buildings and boasted of them, but the buildings were begrimed\nbefore they were finished. They boasted of their libraries, of their\nmonuments and statues; and poured soot on them. They boasted of their\nschools, but the schools were dirty, like the children within them. This\nwas not the fault of the children or their mothers. It was the fault of\nthe idealists, who said: \"The more dirt, the more prosperity.\" They\ndrew patriotic, optimistic breaths of the flying powdered filth of\nthe streets, and took the foul and heavy smoke with gusto into the\nprofundities of their lungs. \"Boost! Don't knock!\" they said. And\nevery year or so they boomed a great Clean-up Week, when everybody was\nsupposed to get rid of the tin cans in his backyard.\n\nThey were happiest when the tearing down and building up were most\nriotous, and when new factory districts were thundering into life. In\ntruth, the city came to be like the body of a great dirty man, skinned,\nto show his busy works, yet wearing a few barbaric ornaments; and such\na figure carved, coloured, and discoloured, and set up in the\nmarket-place, would have done well enough as the god of the new people.\nSuch a god they had indeed made in their own image, as all peoples make\nthe god they truly serve; though of course certain of the idealists\nwent to church on Sunday, and there knelt to Another, considered to\nbe impractical in business. But while the Growing went on, this god\nof their market-place was their true god, their familiar and\nspirit-control. They did not know that they were his helplessly obedient\nslaves, nor could they ever hope to realize their serfdom (as the first\nstep toward becoming free men) until they should make the strange and\nhard discovery that matter should serve man's spirit.\n\n\"Prosperity\" meant good credit at the bank, black lungs, and housewives'\nPurgatory. The women fought the dirt all they could; but if they let the\nair into their houses they let in the dirt. It shortened their lives,\nand kept them from the happiness of ever seeing anything white. And\nthus, as the city grew, the time came when Lucy, after a hard struggle,\nhad to give up her blue-and-white curtains and her white walls. Indoors,\nshe put everything into dull gray and brown, and outside had the little\nhouse painted the dark green nearest to black. Then she knew, of course,\nthat everything was as dirty as ever, but was a little less distressed\nbecause it no longer looked so dirty as it was.\n\nThese were bad times for Amberson Addition. This quarter, already old,\nlay within a mile of the centre of the town, but business moved in other\ndirections; and the Addition's share of Prosperity was only the smoke\nand dirt, with the bank credit left out. The owners of the original\nbig houses sold them, or rented them to boarding-house keepers, and the\ntenants of the multitude of small houses moved \"farther out\" (where the\nsmoke was thinner) or into apartment houses, which were built by dozens\nnow. Cheaper tenants took their places, and the rents were lower and\nlower, and the houses shabbier and shabbier--for all these shabby\nhouses, burning soft coal, did their best to help in the destruction of\ntheir own value. They helped to make the quarter so dingy and the air so\nfoul to breathe that no one would live there who had money enough to get\n\"farther out\" where there were glimpses of ungrayed sky and breaths of\ncleaner winds. And with the coming of the new speed, \"farther out\" was\nnow as close to business as the Addition had been in the days of its\nprosperity. Distances had ceased to matter.\n\nThe five new houses, built so closely where had been the fine lawn of\nthe Amberson Mansion, did not look new. When they were a year old they\nlooked as old as they would ever look; and two of them were vacant,\nhaving never been rented, for the Major's mistake about apartment houses\nhad been a disastrous one. \"He guessed wrong,\" George Amberson said..\n\"He guessed wrong at just the wrong time! Housekeeping in a house is\nharder than in an apartment; and where the smoke and dirt are as thick\nas they are in the Addition, women can't stand it. People were crazy for\napartments--too bad he couldn't have seen it in time. Poor man! he\ndigs away at his ledgers by his old gas drop-light lamp almost every\nnight--he still refuses to let the Mansion be torn up for wiring, you\nknow. But he had one painful satisfaction this spring: he got his taxes\nlowered!\"\n\nAmberson laughed ruefully, and Fanny Minafer asked how the Major could\nhave managed such an economy. They were sitting upon the veranda at\nIsabel's one evening during the third summer of the absence of their\nnephew and his mother; and the conversation had turned toward Amberson\nfinances.\n\n\"I said it was a 'painful satisfaction,' Fanny,\" he explained. \"The\nproperty has gone down in value, and they assessed it lower than they\ndid fifteen years ago.\"\n\n\"But farther out--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, 'farther out!' Prices are magnificent 'farther out,' and\nfarther in, too! We just happen to be the wrong spot, that's all. Not\nthat I don't think something could be done if father would let me have\na hand; but he won't. He can't, I suppose I ought to say. He's 'always\ndone his own figuring,' he says; and it's his lifelong habit to keep his\naffairs: and even his books, to himself, and just hand us out the money.\nHeaven knows he's done enough of that!\"\n\nHe sighed; and both were silent, looking out at the long flares of the\nconstantly passing automobile headlights, shifting in vast geometric\ndemonstrations against the darkness. Now and then a bicycle wound its\nnervous way among these portents, or, at long intervals, a surrey or\nbuggy plodded forlornly by.\n\n\"There seem to be so many ways of making money nowadays,\" Fanny said\nthoughtfully. \"Every day I hear of a new fortune some person has got\nhold of, one way or another--nearly always it's somebody you never heard\nof. It doesn't seem all to be in just making motor cars; I hear there's\na great deal in manufacturing these things that motor cars use--new\ninventions particularly. I met dear old Frank Bronson the other day, and\nhe told me--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, even dear old Frank's got the fever,\" Amberson laughed. \"He's\nas wild as any of them. He told me about this invention he's gone into,\ntoo. 'Millions in it!' Some new electric headlight better than anything\nyet--'every car in America can't help but have 'em,' and all that. He's\nputting half he's laid by into it, and the fact is, he almost talked me\ninto getting father to 'finance me' enough for me to go into it. Poor\nfather! he's financed me before! I suppose he would again if I had the\nheart to ask him; and this seems to be a good thing, though probably\nold Frank is a little too sanguine. At any rate, I've been thinking it\nover.\"\n\n\"So have I,\" Fanny admitted. \"He seemed to be certain it would pay\ntwenty-five per cent. the first year, and enormously more after that;\nand I'm only getting four on my little principal. People are making such\nenormous fortunes out of everything to do with motor cars, it does seem\nas if--\" She paused. \"Well, I told him I'd think it over seriously.\"\n\n\"We may turn out to be partners and millionaires then,\" Amberson\nlaughed. \"I thought I'd ask Eugene's advice.\"\n\n\"I wish you would,\" said Fanny. \"He probably knows exactly how much\nprofit there would be in this.\"\n\nEugene's advice was to \"go slow\": he thought electric lights for\nautomobiles were \"coming--someday but probably not until certain\ndifficulties could be overcome.\" Altogether, he was discouraging, but\nby this time his two friends \"had the fever\" as thoroughly as old Frank\nBronson himself had it; for they had been with Bronson to see the light\nworking beautifully in a machine shop. They were already enthusiastic,\nand after asking Eugene's opinion they argued with him, telling him how\nthey had seen with their own eyes that the difficulties he mentioned had\nbeen overcome. \"Perfectly!\" Fanny cried. \"And if it worked in the shop\nit's bound to work any place else, isn't it?\"\n\nHe would not agree that it was \"bound to\"--yet, being pressed, was\ndriven to admit that \"it might,\" and, retiring from what was developing\ninto an oratorical contest, repeated a warning about not \"putting too\nmuch into it.\"\n\nGeorge Amberson also laid stress on this caution later, though the Major\nhad \"financed him\" again, and he was \"going in.\" \"You must be careful\nto leave yourself a 'margin of safety,' Fanny,\" he said. \"I'm confident\nthat is a pretty conservative investment of its kind, and all the\nchances are with us, but you must be careful to leave yourself enough to\nfall back on, in case anything should go wrong.\"\n\nFanny deceived him. In the impossible event of \"anything going wrong\"\nshe would have enough left to \"live on,\" she declared, and laughed\nexcitedly, for she was having the best time that had come to her since\nWilbur's death. Like so many women for whom money has always been\nprovided without their understanding how, she was prepared to be a\nthorough and irresponsible plunger.\n\nAmberson, in his wearier way, shared her excitement, and in the winter,\nwhen the exploiting company had been formed, and he brought Fanny, her\nimportantly engraved shares of stock, he reverted to his prediction of\npossibilities, made when they first spoke of the new light.\n\n\"We seem to be partners, all right,\" he laughed. \"Now let's go ahead and\nbe millionaires before Isabel and young George come home.\"\n\n\"When they come home!\" she echoed sorrowfully--and it was a phrase which\nfound an evasive echo in Isabel's letters. In these letters Isabel was\nalways planning pleasant things that she and Fanny and the Major and\nGeorge and \"brother George\" would do--when she and her son came home.\n\"They'll find things pretty changed, I'm afraid,\" Fanny said. \"If they\never do come home!\"\n\nAmberson went over, the next summer, and joined his sister and nephew in\nParis, where they were living. \"Isabel does want to come home,\" he told\nFanny gravely, on the day of his return, in October. \"She's wanted\nto for a long while--and she ought to come while she can stand the\njourney--\" And he amplified this statement, leaving Fanny looking\nstartled and solemn when Lucy came by to drive him out to dinner at the\nnew house Eugene had just completed.\n\nThis was no white-and-blue cottage, but a great Georgian picture in\nbrick, five miles north of Amberson Addition, with four acres of its\nown hedged land between it and its next neighbour; and Amberson laughed\nwistfully as they turned in between the stone and brick gate pillars,\nand rolled up the crushed stone driveway. \"I wonder, Lucy, if history's\ngoing on forever repeating itself,\" he said. \"I wonder if this town's\ngoing on building up things and rolling over them, as poor father once\nsaid it was rolling over his poor old heart. It looks like it: here's\nthe Amberson Mansion again, only it's Georgian instead of nondescript\nRomanesque; but it's just the same Amberson Mansion that my father built\nlong before you were born. The only difference is that it's your father\nwho's built this one now. It's all the same, in the long run.\"\n\nLucy did not quite understand, but she laughed as a friend should, and,\ntaking his arm, showed him through vast rooms where ivory-panelled walls\nand trim window hangings were reflected dimly in dark, rugless floors,\nand the sparse furniture showed that Lucy had been \"collecting\" with a\nlong purse. \"By Jove!\" he said. \"You have been going it! Fanny tells me\nyou had a great 'house-warming' dance, and you keep right on being the\nbelle of the ball, not any softer-hearted than you used to be. Fred\nKinney's father says you've refused Fred so often that he got engaged to\nJanie Sharon just to prove that someone would have him in spite of his\nhair. Well, the material world do move, and you've got the new kind\nof house it moves into nowadays--if it has the new price! And even the\ngrand old expanses of plate glass we used to be so proud of at the other\nAmberson Mansion--they've gone, too, with the crowded heavy gold and red\nstuff. Curious! We've still got the plate glass windows, though all we\ncan see out of 'em is the smoke and the old Johnson house, which is a\ncounter-jumper's boardinghouse now, while you've got a view, and you cut\nit all up into little panes. Well, you're pretty refreshingly out of the\nsmoke up here.\"\n\n\"Yes, for a while,\" Lucy laughed. \"Until it comes and we have to move\nout farther.\"\n\n\"No, you'll stay here,\" he assured her. \"It will be somebody else who'll\nmove out farther.\"\n\nHe continued to talk of the house after Eugene arrived, and gave them no\naccount of his journey until they had retired from the dinner table\nto Eugene's library, a gray and shadowy room, where their coffee\nwas brought. Then, equipped with a cigar, which seemed to occupy his\nattention, Amberson spoke in a casual tone of his sister and her son.\n\n\"I found Isabel as well as usual,\" he said, \"only I'm afraid 'as usual'\nisn't particularly well. Sydney and Amelia had been up to Paris in the\nspring, but she hadn't seen them. Somebody told her they were there, it\nseems. They'd left Florence and were living in Rome; Amelia's become a\nCatholic and is said to give great sums to charity and to go about\nwith the gentry in consequence, but Sydney's ailing and lives in a\nwheel-chair most of the time. It struck me Isabel ought to be doing the\nsame thing.\"\n\nHe paused, bestowing minute care upon the removal of the little band\nfrom his cigar; and as he seemed to have concluded his narrative, Eugene\nspoke out of the shadow beyond a heavily shaded lamp: \"What do you mean\nby that?\" he asked quietly.\n\n\"Oh, she's cheerful enough,\" said Amberson, still not looking at either\nhis young hostess or her father. \"At least,\" he added, \"she manages to\nseem so. I'm afraid she hasn't been really well for several years. She\nisn't stout you know--she hasn't changed in looks much--and she seems\nrather alarmingly short of breath for a slender person. Father's been\nthat way for years, of course; but never nearly so much as Isabel is\nnow. Of course she makes nothing of it, but it seemed rather serious to\nme when I noticed she had to stop and rest twice to get up the one short\nflight of stairs in their two-floor apartment. I told her I thought she\nought to make George let her come home.\"\n\n\"Let her?\" Eugene repeated, in a low voice. \"Does she want to?\"\n\n\"She doesn't urge it. George seems to like the life there-in his grand,\ngloomy, and peculiar way; and of course she'll never change about being\nproud of him and all that--he's quite a swell. But in spite of anything\nshe said, rather than because, I know she does indeed want to come.\nShe'd like to be with father, of course; and I think she's--well, she\nintimated one day that she feared it might even happen that she wouldn't\nget to see him again. At the time I thought she referred to his age and\nfeebleness, but on the boat, coming home, I remembered the little look\nof wistfulness, yet of resignation, with which she said it, and it\nstruck me all at once that I'd been mistaken: I saw she was really\nthinking of her own state of health.\"\n\n\"I see,\" Eugene said, his voice even lower than it had been before. \"And\nyou say he won't 'let' her come home?\"\n\nAmberson laughed, but still continued to be interested in his cigar.\n\"Oh, I don't think he uses force! He's very gentle with her. I doubt\nif the subject is mentioned between them, and yet--and yet, knowing my\ninteresting nephew as you do, wouldn't you think that was about the way\nto put it?\"\n\n\"Knowing him as I do--yes,\" said Eugene slowly. \"Yes, I should think that\nwas about the way to put it.\"\n\nA murmur out of the shadows beyond him--a faint sound, musical and\nfeminine, yet expressive of a notable intensity--seemed to indicate that\nLucy was of the same opinion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIX\n\n\n\n\"Let her\" was correct; but the time came--and it came in the spring of\nthe next year when it was no longer a question of George's letting his\nmother come home. He had to bring her, and to bring her quickly if she\nwas to see her father again; and Amberson had been right: her danger of\nnever seeing him again lay not in the Major's feebleness of heart but in\nher own. As it was, George telegraphed his uncle to have a wheeled chair\nat the station, for the journey had been disastrous, and to this hybrid\nvehicle, placed close to the platform, her son carried her in his arms\nwhen she arrived. She was unable to speak, but patted her brother's and\nFanny's hands and looked \"very sweet,\" Fanny found the desperate courage\nto tell her. She was lifted from the chair into a carriage, and seemed\na little stronger as they drove home; for once she took her hand from\nGeorge's, and waved it feebly toward the carriage window.\n\n\"Changed,\" she whispered. \"So changed.\"\n\n\"You mean the town,\" Amberson said. \"You mean the old place is changed,\ndon't you, dear?\"\n\nShe smiled and moved her lips: \"Yes.\"\n\n\"It'll change to a happier place, old dear,\" he said, \"now that you're\nback in it, and going to get well again.\"\n\nBut she only looked at him wistfully, her eyes a little frightened.\n\nWhen the carriage stopped, her son carried her into the house, and up\nthe stairs to her own room, where a nurse was waiting; and he came out\na moment later, as the doctor went in. At the end of the hall a stricken\ngroup was clustered: Amberson, and Fanny, and the Major. George, deathly\npale and speechless, took his grandfather's hand, but the old gentleman\ndid not seem to notice his action.\n\n\"When are they going to let me see my daughter?\" he asked querulously.\n\"They told me to keep out of the way while they carried her in, because\nit might upset her. I wish they'd let me go in and speak to my daughter.\nI think she wants to see me.\"\n\nHe was right--presently the doctor came out and beckoned to him; and the\nMajor shuffled forward, leaning on a shaking cane; his figure, after all\nits Years of proud soldierliness, had grown stooping at last, and his\nuntrimmed white hair straggled over the back of his collar. He looked\nold--old and divested of the world--as he crept toward his daughter's\nroom. Her voice was stronger, for the waiting group heard a low cry of\ntenderness and welcome as the old man reached the open doorway. Then the\ndoor was closed.\n\nFanny touched her nephew's arm. \"George, you must need something to\neat--I know she'd want you to. I've had things ready: I knew she'd want\nme to. You'd better go down to the dining room: there's plenty on the\ntable, waiting for you. She'd want you to eat something.\"\n\nHe turned a ghastly face to her, it was so panic-stricken. \"I don't\nwant anything to eat!\" he said savagely. And he began to pace the floor,\ntaking care not to go near Isabel's door, and that his footsteps were\nmuffled by the long, thick hall rug. After a while he went to where\nAmberson, with folded arms and bowed head, had seated himself near the\nfront window. \"Uncle George,\" he said hoarsely. \"I didn't--\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Oh, my God, I didn't think this thing the matter with her could ever be\nserious! I--\" He gasped. \"When that doctor I had meet us at the boat--\"\nHe could not go on.\n\nAmberson only nodded his head, and did not otherwise change his\nattitude.\n\nIsabel lived through the night. At eleven O'clock Fanny came timidly to\nGeorge in his room. \"Eugene is here,\" she whispered. \"He's downstairs.\nHe wants--\" She gulped. \"He wants to know if he can't see her. I didn't\nknow what to say. I said I'd see. I didn't know--the doctor said--\"\n\n\"The doctor said we 'must keep her peaceful,'\" George said sharply. \"Do\nyou think that man's coming would be very soothing? My God! if it hadn't\nbeen for him this mightn't have happened: we could have gone on living\nhere quietly, and--why, it would be like taking a stranger into her\nroom! She hasn't even spoken of him more than twice in all the time\nwe've been away. Doesn't he know how sick she is? You tell him the\ndoctor said she had to be quiet and peaceful. That's what he did say,\nisn't it?\"\n\nFanny acquiesced tearfully. \"I'll tell him. I'll tell him the doctor\nsaid she was to be kept very quiet. I--I didn't know--\" And she pottered\nout.\n\nAn hour later the nurse appeared in George's doorway; she came\nnoiselessly, and his back was toward her; but he jumped as if he had\nbeen shot, and his jaw fell, he so feared what she was going to say.\n\n\"She wants to see you.\"\n\nThe terrified mouth shut with a click; and he nodded and followed her;\nbut she remained outside his mother's room while he went in.\n\nIsabel's eyes were closed, and she did not open them or move her head,\nbut she smiled and edged her hand toward him as he sat on a stool beside\nthe bed. He took that slender, cold hand, and put it to his cheek.\n\n\"Darling, did you--get something to eat?\" She could only whisper, slowly\nand with difficulty. It was as if Isabel herself were far away, and only\nable to signal what she wanted to say.\n\n\"Yes, mother.\"\n\n\"All you--needed?\"\n\n\"Yes, mother.\"\n\nShe did not speak again for a time; then, \"Are you sure you\ndidn't--didn't catch cold coming home?\"\n\n\"I'm all right, mother.\"\n\n\"That's good. It's sweet--it's sweet--\"\n\n\"What is, mother darling?\"\n\n\"To feel--my hand on your cheek. I--I can feel it.\"\n\nBut this frightened him horribly--that she seemed so glad she could feel\nit, like a child proud of some miraculous seeming thing accomplished. It\nfrightened him so that he could not speak, and he feared that she would\nknow how he trembled; but she was unaware, and again was silent. Finally\nshe spoke again:\n\n\"I wonder if--if Eugene and Lucy know that we've come--home.\"\n\n\"I'm sure they do.\"\n\n\"Has he--asked about me?\"\n\n\"Yes, he was here.\"\n\n\"Has he--gone?\"\n\n\"Yes, mother.\"\n\nShe sighed faintly. \"I'd like--\"\n\n\"What, mother?\"\n\n\"I'd like to have--seen him.\" It was just audible, this little regretful\nmurmur. Several minutes passed before there was another. \"Just--just\nonce,\" she whispered, and then was still.\n\nShe seemed to have fallen asleep, and George moved to go, but a faint\npressure upon his fingers detained him, and he remained, with her hand\nstill pressed against his cheek. After a while he made sure she was\nasleep, and moved again, to let the nurse come in, and this time there\nwas no pressure of the fingers to keep him. She was not asleep, but\nthinking that if he went he might get some rest, and be better prepared\nfor what she knew was coming, she commanded those longing fingers of\nhers--and let him go.\n\nHe found the doctor standing with the nurse in the hall; and, telling\nthem that his mother was drowsing now, George went back to his own room,\nwhere he was startled to find his grandfather lying on the bed, and his\nuncle leaning against the wall. They had gone home two hours before, and\nhe did not know they had returned.\n\n\"The doctor thought we'd better come over,\" Amberson said, then was\nsilent, and George, shaking violently, sat down on the edge of the bed.\nHis shaking continued, and from time to time he wiped heavy sweat from\nhis forehead.\n\nThe hours passed, and sometimes the old man upon the bed would snore a\nlittle, stop suddenly, and move as if to rise, but George Amberson would\nset a hand upon his shoulder, and murmur a reassuring word or two. Now\nand then, either uncle or nephew would tiptoe into the hall and look\ntoward Isabel's room, then come tiptoeing back, the other watching him\nhaggardly.\n\nOnce George gasped defiantly: \"That doctor in New York said she might\nget better! Don't you know he did? Don't you know he said she might?\"\n\nAmberson made no answer.\n\nDawn had been murking through the smoky windows, growing stronger for\nhalf an hour, when both men started violently at a sound in the hall;\nand the Major sat up on the bed, unchecked. It was the voice of the\nnurse speaking to Fanny Minafer, and the next moment, Fanny appeared in\nthe doorway, making contorted efforts to speak.\n\nAmberson said weakly: \"Does she want us--to come in?\"\n\nBut Fanny found her voice, and uttered a long, loud cry. She threw her\narms about George, and sobbed in an agony of loss and compassion:\n\n\"She loved you!\" she wailed. \"She loved you! She loved you! Oh, how she\ndid love you!\"\n\nIsabel had just left them.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXX\n\n\nMajor Amberson remained dry-eyed through the time that followed: he\nknew that this separation from his daughter would be short, that the\nseparation which had preceded it was the long one. He worked at his\nledgers no more under his old gas drop-light, but would sit all evening\nstaring into the fire, in his bedroom, and not speaking unless someone\nasked him a question. He seemed almost unaware of what went on around\nhim, and those who were with him thought him dazed by Isabel's death,\nguessing that he was lost in reminiscences and vague dreams. \"Probably\nhis mind is full of pictures of his youth, or the Civil War, and the\ndays when he and mother were young married people and all of us children\nwere jolly little things--and the city was a small town with one cobbled\nstreet and the others just dirt roads with board sidewalks.\" This was\nGeorge Amberson's conjecture, and the others agreed; but they were\nmistaken. The Major was engaged in the profoundest thinking of his\nlife. No business plans which had ever absorbed him could compare in\nmomentousness with the plans that absorbed him now, for he had to plan\nhow to enter the unknown country where he was not even sure of being\nrecognized as an Amberson--not sure of anything, except that Isabel\nwould help him if she could. His absorption produced the outward effect\nof reverie, but of course it was not. The Major was occupied with the\nfirst really important matter that had taken his attention since he came\nhome invalided, after the Gettysburg campaign, and went into business;\nand he realized that everything which had worried him or delighted\nhim during this lifetime between then and to-day--all his buying and\nbuilding and trading and banking--that it all was trifling and waste\nbeside what concerned him now.\n\nHe seldom went out of his room, and often left untouched the meals they\nbrought to him there; and this neglect caused them to shake their heads\nmournfully, again mistaking for dazedness the profound concentration of\nhis mind. Meanwhile, the life of the little bereft group still forlornly\ncentering upon him began to pick up again, as life will, and to emerge\nfrom its own period of dazedness. It was not Isabel's father but her son\nwho was really dazed.\n\nA month after her death he walked abruptly into Fanny's room, one night,\nand found her at her desk, eagerly adding columns of figures with which\nshe had covered several sheets of paper. This mathematical computation\nwas concerned with her future income to be produced by the electric\nheadlight, now just placed on the general market; but Fanny was ashamed\nto be discovered doing anything except mourning, and hastily pushed\nthe sheets aside, even as she looked over her shoulder to greet her\nhollow-eyed visitor.\n\n\"George! You startled me.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon for not knocking,\" he said huskily. \"I didn't think.\"\n\nShe turned in her chair and looked at him solicitously. \"Sit down,\nGeorge, won't you?\"\n\n\"No. I just wanted--\"\n\n\"I could hear you walking up and down in your room,\" said Fanny. \"You\nwere doing it ever since dinner, and it seems to me you're at it almost\nevery evening. I don't believe it's good for you--and I know it would\nworry your mother terribly if she--\" Fanny hesitated.\n\n\"See here,\" George said, breathing fast, \"I want to tell you once more\nthat what I did was right. How could I have done anything else but what\nI did do?\"\n\n\"About what, George?\"\n\n\"About everything!\" he exclaimed; and he became vehement. \"I did the\nright thing, I tell you! In heaven's name, I'd like to know what\nelse there was for anybody in my position to do! It would have been a\ndreadful thing for me to just let matters go on and not interfere--it\nwould have been terrible! What else on earth was there for me to do? I\nhad to stop that talk, didn't I? Could a son do less than I did? Didn't\nit cost me something to do it? Lucy and I'd had a quarrel, but that\nwould have come round in time--and it meant the end forever when I\nturned her father back from our door. I knew what it meant, yet I went\nahead and did it because knew it had to be done if the talk was to be\nstopped. I took mother away for the same reason. I knew that would help\nto stop it. And she was happy over there--she was perfectly happy. I\ntell you, I think she had a happy life, and that's my only consolation.\nShe didn't live to be old; she was still beautiful and young looking,\nand I feel she'd rather have gone before she got old. She'd had a good\nhusband, and all the comfort and luxury that anybody could have--and how\ncould it be called anything but a happy life? She was always cheerful,\nand when I think of her I can always see her laughing--I can always hear\nthat pretty laugh of hers. When I can keep my mind off of the trip home,\nand that last night, I always think of her gay and laughing. So how on\nearth could she have had anything but a happy life? People that aren't\nhappy don't look cheerful all the time, do they? They look unhappy\nif they are unhappy; that's how they look! See here\"--he faced her\nchallengingly--\"do you deny that I did the right thing?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't pretend to judge,\" Fanny said soothingly, for his voice and\ngesture both partook of wildness. \"I know you think you did, George.\"\n\n\"Think I did!\" he echoed violently. \"My God in heaven!\" And he began to\nwalk up and down the floor. \"What else was there to do? What, choice did\nI have? Was there any other way of stopping the talk?\" He stopped, close\nin front of her, gesticulating, his voice harsh and loud: \"Don't you\nhear me? I'm asking you: Was there any other way on earth of protecting\nher from the talk?\"\n\nMiss Fanny looked away. \"It died down before long, I think,\" she said\nnervously.\n\n\"That shows I was right, doesn't it?\" he cried. \"If I hadn't acted as\nI did, that slanderous old Johnson woman would have kept on with her\nslanders--she'd still be--\"\n\n\"No,\" Fanny interrupted. \"She's dead. She dropped dead with apoplexy one\nday about six weeks after you left. I didn't mention it in my letters\nbecause I didn't want--I thought--\"\n\n\"Well, the other people would have kept on, then. They'd have--\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Fanny, still averting her troubled eyes. \"Things\nare so changed here, George. The other people you speak of--one hardly\nknows what's become of them. Of course not a great many were doing the\ntalking, and they--well, some of them are dead, and some might as well\nbe--you never see them any more--and the rest, whoever they were, are\nprobably so mixed in with the crowds of new people that seem never even\nto have heard of us--and I'm sure we certainly never heard of them--and\npeople seem to forget things so soon--they seem to forget anything. You\ncan't imagine how things have changed here!\"\n\nGeorge gulped painfully before he could speak. \"You--you mean to sit\nthere and tell me that if I'd just let things go on--Oh!\" He swung away,\nwalking the floor again. \"I tell you I did the only right thing! If\nyou don't think so, why in the name of heaven can't you say what else\nI should have done? It's easy enough to criticize, but the person who\ncriticizes a man ought at least to tell him what else he should have\ndone! You think I was wrong!\"\n\n\"I'm not saying so,\" she said.\n\n\"You did at the time!\" he cried. \"You said enough then, I think! Well,\nwhat have you to say now, if you're so sure I was wrong?\"\n\n\"Nothing, George.\"\n\n\"It's only because you're afraid to!\" he said, and he went on with a\nsudden bitter divination: \"You're reproaching yourself with what you had\nto do with all that; and you're trying to make up for it by doing and\nsaying what you think mother would want you to, and you think I couldn't\nstand it if I got to thinking I might have done differently. Oh, I know!\nThat's exactly what's in your mind: you do think I was wrong! So does\nUncle George. I challenged him about it the other day, and he answered\njust as you're answering--evaded, and tried to be gentler. I don't care\nto be handled with gloves! I tell you I was right, and I don't need any\ncoddling by people that think I wasn't! And I suppose you believe I was\nwrong not to let Morgan see her that last night when he came here, and\nshe--she was dying. If you do, why in the name of God did you come and\nask me? You could have taken him in! She did want to see him. She--\"\n\nMiss Fanny looked startled. \"You think--\"\n\n\"She told me so!\" And the tortured young man choked. \"She said--'just\nonce.' She said 'I'd like to have seen him--just once!' She meant--to\ntell him good-bye! That's what she meant! And you put this on me, too;\nyou put this responsibility on me! But I tell you, and I told Uncle\nGeorge, that the responsibility isn't all mine! If you were so sure I\nwas wrong all the time--when I took her away, and when I turned Morgan\nout--if you were so sure, what did you let me do it for? You and Uncle\nGeorge were grown people, both of you, weren't you? You were older than\nI, and if you were so sure you were wiser than I, why did you just stand\naround with your hands hanging down, and let me go ahead? You could have\nstopped it if it was wrong, couldn't you?\"\n\nFanny shook her head. \"No, George,\" she said slowly. \"Nobody could have\nstopped you. You were too strong, and--\"\n\n\"And what?\" he demanded loudly.\n\n\"And she loved you--too well.\"\n\nGeorge stared at her hard, then his lower lip began to move\nconvulsively, and he set his teeth upon it but could not check its\nfrantic twitching.\n\nHe ran out of the room.\n\nShe sat still, listening. He had plunged into his mother's room, but\nno sound came to Fanny's ears after the sharp closing of the door;\nand presently she rose and stepped out into the hall--but could hear\nnothing. The heavy black walnut door of Isabel's room, as Fanny's\ntroubled eyes remained fixed upon it, seemed to become darker and\nvaguer; the polished wood took the distant ceiling light, at the end\nof the hall, in dim reflections which became mysterious; and to Fanny's\ndisturbed mind the single sharp point of light on the bronze door-knob\nwas like a continuous sharp cry in the stillness of night. What\ninterview was sealed away from human eye and ear within the lonely\ndarkness on the other side of that door--in that darkness where Isabel's\nown special chairs were, and her own special books, and the two great\nwalnut wardrobes filled with her dresses and wraps? What tragic argument\nmight be there vainly striving to confute the gentle dead? \"In God's\nname, what else could I have done?\" For his mother's immutable silence\nwas surely answering him as Isabel in life would never have answered\nhim, and he was beginning to understand how eloquent the dead can be.\nThey cannot stop their eloquence, no matter how they have loved the\nliving: they cannot choose. And so, no matter in what agony George\nshould cry out, \"What else could I have done?\" and to the end of his\nlife no matter how often he made that wild appeal, Isabel was doomed to\nanswer him with the wistful, faint murmur:\n\n\"I'd like to have-seen him. Just--just once.\"\n\nA cheerful darkey went by the house, loudly and tunelessly whistling\nsome broken thoughts upon women, fried food and gin; then a group of\nhigh school boys, returning homeward after important initiations, were\nheard skylarking along the sidewalk, rattling sticks on the fences,\nsquawking hoarsely, and even attempting to sing in the shocking new\nvoices of uncompleted adolescence. For no reason, and just as a poultry\nyard falls into causeless agitation, they stopped in front of the house,\nand for half an hour produced the effect of a noisy multitude in full\nriot.\n\nTo the woman standing upstairs in the hall, this was almost unbearable;\nand she felt that she would have to go down and call to them to stop;\nbut she was too timid, and after a time went back to her room, and sat\nat her desk again. She left the door open, and frequently glanced out\ninto the hall, but gradually became once more absorbed in the figures\nwhich represented her prospective income from her great plunge in\nelectric lights for automobiles. She did not hear George return to his\nown room.\n\nA superstitious person might have thought it unfortunate that her\npartner in this speculative industry (as in Wilbur's disastrous\nrolling-mills) was that charming but too haphazardous man of the world,\nGeorge Amberson. He was one of those optimists who believe that if you\nput money into a great many enterprises one of them is sure to turn out\na fortune, and therefore, in order to find the lucky one, it is only\nnecessary to go into a large enough number of them. Altogether gallant\nin spirit, and beautifully game under catastrophe, he had gone into a\ngreat many, and the unanimity of their \"bad luck,\" as he called it,\ngave him one claim to be a distinguished person, if he had no other.\nIn business he was ill fated with a consistency which made him, in that\nalone, a remarkable man; and he declared, with some earnestness, that\nthere was no accounting for it except by the fact that there had been\nso much good luck in his family before he was born that something had to\nbalance it.\n\n\"You ought to have thought of my record and stayed out,\" he told Fanny,\none day the next spring, when the affairs of the headlight company had\nbegun to look discouraging. \"I feel the old familiar sinking that's\nattended all my previous efforts to prove myself a business genius. I\nthink it must be something like the feeling an aeronaut has when his\nballoon bursts, and, looking down, he sees below him the old home farm\nwhere he used to live--I mean the feeling he'd have just before he\nflattened out in that same old clay barnyard. Things do look bleak, and\nI'm only glad you didn't go into this confounded thing to the extent I\ndid.\"\n\nMiss Fanny grew pink. \"But it must go right!\" she protested. \"We saw\nwith our own eyes how perfectly it worked in the shop. The light was so\nbright no one could face it, and so there can't be any reason for it not\nto work. It simply--\"\n\n\"Oh, you're right about that,\" Amberson said. \"It certainly was a\nperfect thing--in the shop! The only thing we didn't know was how fast\nan automobile had to go to keep the light going. It appears that this\nwas a matter of some importance.\"\n\n\"Well, how fast does one have to--\"\n\n\"To keep the light from going entirely out,\" he informed her with\nelaborate deliberation, \"it is computed by those enthusiasts who have\nbought our product--and subsequently returned it to us and got their\nmoney back--they compute that a motor car must maintain a speed of\ntwenty-five miles an hour, or else there won't be any light at all.\nTo make the illumination bright enough to be noticed by an approaching\nautomobile, they state the speed must be more than thirty miles an\nhour. At thirty-five, objects in the path of the light begin to become\nvisible; at forty they are revealed distinctly; and at fifty and above\nwe have a real headlight. Unfortunately many people don't care to drive\nthat fast at all times after dusk, especially in the traffic, or where\npolicemen are likely to become objectionable.\"\n\n\"But think of that test on the road when we--\"\n\n\"That test was lovely,\" he admitted. \"The inventor made us happy with\nhis oratory, and you and Frank Bronson and I went whirling through the\nnight at a speed that thrilled us. It was an intoxicating sensation: we\nwere intoxicated by the lights, the lights and the music. We must never\nforget that drive, with the cool wind kissing our cheeks and the road\nlit up for miles ahead. We must never forget it and we never shall. It\ncost--\"\n\n\"But something's got to be done.\"\n\n\"It has, indeed! My something would seem to be leaving my watch at my\nuncle's. Luckily, you--\"\n\nThe pink of Fanny's cheeks became deeper. \"But isn't that man going to\ndo anything to remedy it? can't he try to--\"\n\n\"He can try,\" said Amberson. \"He is trying, in fact. I've sat in the\nshop watching him try for several beautiful afternoons, while outside\nthe windows all Nature was fragrant with spring and smoke. He hums\nragtime to himself as he tries, and I think his mind is wandering to\nsomething else less tedious--to some new invention in which he'd take\nmore interest.\"\n\n\"But you mustn't let him,\" she cried. \"You must make him keep on\ntrying!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. He understands that's what I sit there for. I'll keep\nsitting!\"\n\nHowever, in spite of the time he spent sitting in the shop, worrying\nthe inventor of the fractious light, Amberson found opportunity to worry\nhimself about another matter of business. This was the settlement of\nIsabel's estate.\n\n\"It's curious about the deed to her house,\" he said to his nephew.\n\"You're absolutely sure it wasn't among her papers?\"\n\n\"Mother didn't have any papers,\" George told him. \"None at all. All she\never had to do with business was to deposit the cheques grandfather gave\nher and then write her own cheques against them.\"\n\n\"The deed to the house was never recorded,\" Amberson said thoughtfully.\n\"I've been over to the courthouse to see. I asked father if he never\ngave her one, and he didn't seem able to understand me at first. Then he\nfinally said he thought he must have given her a deed long ago; but he\nwasn't sure. I rather think he never did. I think it would be just as\nwell to get him to execute one now in your favour. I'll speak to him\nabout it.\"\n\nGeorge sighed. \"I don't think I'd bother him about it: the house is\nmine, and you and I understand that it is. That's enough for me, and\nthere isn't likely to be much trouble between you and me when we come to\nsettling poor grandfather's estate. I've just been with him, and I think\nit would only confuse him for you to speak to him about it again. I\nnotice he seems distressed if anybody tries to get his attention--he's a\nlong way off, somewhere, and he likes to stay that way. I think--I think\nmother wouldn't want us to bother him about it; I'm sure she'd tell us\nto let him alone. He looks so white and queer.\"\n\nAmberson shook his head. \"Not much whiter and queerer than you do, young\nfellow! You'd better begin to get some air and exercise and quit hanging\nabout in the house all day. I won't bother him any more than I can help;\nbut I'll have the deed made out ready for his signature.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't bother him at all. I don't see--\"\n\n\"You might see,\" said his uncle uneasily. \"The estate is just about\nas involved and mixed-up as an estate can well get, to the best of my\nknowledge; and I haven't helped it any by what he let me have for this\ninfernal headlight scheme which has finally gone trolloping forever to\nwhere the woodbine twineth. Leaves me flat, and poor old Frank Bronson\njust half flat, and Fanny--well, thank heaven! I kept her from going\nin so deep that it would leave her flat. It's rough on her as it is, I\nsuspect. You ought to have that deed.\"\n\n\"No. Don't bother him.\"\n\n\"I'll bother him as little as possible. I'll wait till some day when he\nseems to brighten up a little.\"\n\nBut Amberson waited too long. The Major had already taken eleven months\nsince his daughter's death to think important things out. He had got as\nfar with them as he could, and there was nothing to detain him longer\nin the world. One evening his grandson sat with him--the Major seemed\nto like best to have young George with him, so far as they were able to\nguess his preferences--and the old gentleman made a queer gesture:\nhe slapped his knee as if he had made a sudden discovery, or else\nremembered that he had forgotten something.\n\nGeorge looked at him with an air of inquiry, but said nothing. He had\ngrown to be almost as silent as his grandfather. However, the Major\nspoke without being questioned.\n\n\"It must be in the sun,\" he said. \"There wasn't anything here but the\nsun in the first place, and the earth came out of the sun, and we came\nout of the earth. So, whatever we are, we must have been in the sun. We\ngo back to the earth we came out of, so the earth will go back to the\nsun that it came out of. And time means nothing--nothing at all--so in a\nlittle while we'll all be back in the sun together. I wish--\"\n\nHe moved his hand uncertainly as if reaching for something, and George\njumped up. \"Did you want anything, grandfather?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Would you like a glass of water?\"\n\n\"No--no. No; I don't want anything.\" The reaching hand dropped back upon\nthe arm of his chair, and he relapsed into silence; but a few minutes\nlater he finished the sentence he had begun:\n\n\"I wish--somebody could tell me!\"\n\nThe next day he had a slight cold, but he seemed annoyed when his son\nsuggested calling the doctor, and Amberson let him have his own way\nso far, in fact, that after he had got up and dressed, the following\nmorning, he was all alone when he went away to find out what he hadn't\nbeen able to think out--all those things he had wished \"somebody\" would\ntell him.\n\nOld Sam, shuffling in with the breakfast tray, found the Major in his\naccustomed easy-chair by the fireplace--and yet even the old darkey\ncould see instantly that the Major was not there.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXI\n\n\n\nWhen the great Amberson Estate went into court for settlement, \"there\nwasn't any,\" George Amberson said--that is, when the settlement was\nconcluded there was no estate. \"I guessed it,\" Amberson went on. \"As\nan expert on prosperity, my career is disreputable, but as a prophet\nof calamity I deserve a testimonial banquet.\" He reproached himself\nbitterly for not having long ago discovered that his father had never\ngiven Isabel a deed to her house. \"And those pigs, Sydney and Amelia!\"\nhe added, for this was another thing he was bitter about. \"They won't\ndo anything. I'm sorry I gave them the opportunity of making a polished\nrefusal. Amelia's letter was about half in Italian; she couldn't\nremember enough ways of saying no in English. One has to live quite a\nlong while to realize there are people like that! The estate was badly\ncrippled, even before they took out their 'third,' and the 'third' they\ntook was the only good part of the rotten apple. Well, I didn't ask them\nfor restitution on my own account, and at least it will save you some\ntrouble, young George. Never waste any time writing to them; you mustn't\ncount on them.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" George said quietly. \"I don't count on anything.\"\n\n\"Oh, we'll not feel that things are quite desperate,\" Amberson laughed,\nbut not with great cheerfulness. \"We'll survive, Georgie--you will,\nespecially. For my part I'm a little too old and too accustomed to fall\nback on somebody else for supplies to start a big fight with life:\nI'll be content with just surviving, and I can do it on an\neighteen-hundred-dollar--a-year consulship. An ex-congressman can always\nbe pretty sure of getting some such job, and I hear from Washington the\nmatter's about settled. I'll live pleasantly enough with a pitcher of\nice under a palm tree, and black folks to wait on me--that part of it\nwill be like home--and I'll manage to send you fifty dollars every now\nand then, after I once get settled. So much for me! But you--of course\nyou've had a poor training for making your own way, but you're only a\nboy after all, and the stuff of the old stock is in you. It'll come out\nand do something. I'll never forgive myself about that deed: it would\nhave given you something substantial to start with. Still, you have\na little tiny bit, and you'll have a little tiny salary, too; and of\ncourse your Aunt Fanny's here, and she's got something you can fall back\non if you get too pinched, until I can begin to send you a dribble now\nand then.\"\n\nGeorge's \"little tiny bit\" was six hundred dollars which had come to him\nfrom the sale of his mother's furniture; and the \"little tiny salary\"\nwas eight dollars a week which old Frank Bronson was to pay him for\nservices as a clerk and student-at-law. Old Frank would have offered\nmore to the Major's grandson, but since the death of that best of\nclients and his own experience with automobile headlights, he was not\ncertain of being able to pay more and at the same time settle his own\nsmall bills for board and lodging. George had accepted haughtily, and\nthereby removed a burden from his uncle's mind.\n\nAmberson himself, however, had not even a \"tiny bit\"; though he got his\nconsular appointment; and to take him to his post he found it necessary\nto borrow two hundred of his nephew's six hundred dollars. \"It makes me\nsick, George,\" he said. \"But I'd better get there and get that salary\nstarted. Of course Eugene would do anything in the world, and the fact\nis he wanted to, but I felt that--ah--under the circumstances--\"\n\n\"Never!\" George exclaimed, growing red. \"I can't imagine one of the\nfamily--\" He paused, not finding it necessary to explain that \"the\nfamily\" shouldn't turn a man from the door and then accept favours from\nhim. \"I wish you'd take more.\"\n\nAmberson declined. \"One thing I'll say for you, young George; you\nhaven't a stingy bone in your body. That's the Amberson stock in\nyou--and I like it!\"\n\nHe added something to this praise of his nephew on the day he left for\nWashington. He was not to return, but to set forth from the capital on\nthe long journey to his post. George went with him to the station, and\ntheir farewell was lengthened by the train's being several minutes late.\n\n\"I may not see you again, Georgie,\" Amberson said; and his voice was a\nlittle husky as he set a kind hand on the young man's shoulder. \"It's\nquite probable that from this time on we'll only know each other by\nletter--until you're notified as my next of kin that there's an old\nvalise to be forwarded to you, and perhaps some dusty curios from\nthe consulate mantelpiece. Well, it's an odd way for us to be saying\ngood-bye: one wouldn't have thought it, even a few years ago, but here\nwe are, two gentlemen of elegant appearance in a state of bustitude.\nWe can't ever tell what will happen at all, can we? Once I stood where\nwe're standing now, to say good-bye to a pretty girl--only it was in the\nold station before this was built, and we called it the 'depot.' She'd\nbeen visiting your mother, before Isabel was married, and I was wild\nabout her, and she admitted she didn't mind that. In fact, we decided we\ncouldn't live without each other, and we were to be married. But she had\nto go abroad first with her father, and when we came to say good-bye\nwe knew we wouldn't see each other again for almost a year. I thought I\ncouldn't live through it--and she stood here crying. Well, I don't even\nknow where she lives now, or if she is living--and I only happen to\nthink of her sometimes when I'm here at the station waiting for a train.\nIf she ever thinks of me she probably imagines I'm still dancing in the\nballroom at the Amberson Mansion, and she probably thinks of the Mansion\nas still beautiful--still the finest house in town. Life and money both\nbehave like loose quicksilver in a nest of cracks. And when they're gone\nwe can't tell where--or what the devil we did with 'em! But I believe\nI'll say now--while there isn't much time left for either of us to get\nembarrassed about it--I believe I'll say that I've always been fond of\nyou, Georgie, but I can't say that I always liked you. Sometimes I've\nfelt you were distinctly not an acquired taste. Until lately, one had to\nbe fond of you just naturally--this isn't very 'tactful,' of course--for\nif he didn't, well, he wouldn't! We all spoiled you terribly when you\nwere a little boy and let you grow up en prince--and I must say you took\nto it! But you've received a pretty heavy jolt, and I had enough of\nyour disposition, myself, at your age, to understand a little of what\ncocksure youth has to go through inside when it finds that it can\nmake terrible mistakes. Poor old fellow! You get both kinds of jolts\ntogether, spiritual and material--and you've taken them pretty quietly\nand--well, with my train coming into the shed, you'll forgive me\nfor saying that there have been times when I thought you ought to be\nhanged--but I've always been fond of you, and now I like you! And just\nfor a last word: there may be somebody else in this town who's always\nfelt about you like that--fond of you, I mean, no matter how much it\nseemed you ought to be hanged. You might try--Hello, I must run. I'll\nsend back the money as fast as they pay me--so, good-bye and God bless\nyou, Georgie!\"\n\nHe passed through the gates, waved his hat cheerily from the other side\nof the iron screen, and was lost from sight in the hurrying crowd.\nAnd as he disappeared, an unexpected poignant loneliness fell upon his\nnephew so heavily and so suddenly that he had no energy to recoil from\nthe shock. It seemed to him that the last fragment of his familiar world\nhad disappeared, leaving him all alone forever.\n\nHe walked homeward slowly through what appeared to be the strange\nstreets of a strange city; and, as a matter of fact, the city was\nstrange to him. He had seen little of it during his years in college,\nand then had followed the long absence and his tragic return. Since that\nhe had been \"scarcely outdoors at all,\" as Fanny complained, warning him\nthat his health would suffer, and he had been downtown only in a closed\ncarriage. He had not realized the great change.\n\nThe streets were thunderous; a vast energy heaved under the universal\ncoating of dinginess. George walked through the begrimed crowds of\nhurrying strangers and saw no face that he remembered. Great numbers\nof the faces were even of a kind he did not remember ever to have seen;\nthey were partly like the old type that his boyhood knew, and partly\nlike types he knew abroad. He saw German eyes with American wrinkles at\ntheir corners; he saw Irish eyes and Neapolitan eyes, Roman eyes,\nTuscan eyes, eyes of Lombardy, of Savoy, Hungarian eyes, Balkan eyes,\nScandinavian eyes--all with a queer American look in them. He saw Jews\nwho had been German Jews, Jews who had been Russian Jews, Jews who had\nbeen Polish Jews but were no longer German or Russian or Polish Jews.\nAll the people were soiled by the smoke-mist through which they hurried,\nunder the heavy sky that hung close upon the new skyscrapers; and nearly\nall seemed harried by something impending, though here and there a women\nwith bundles would be laughing to a companion about some adventure of\nthe department stores, or perhaps an escape from the charging traffic\nof the streets--and not infrequently a girl, or a free-and-easy young\nmatron, found time to throw an encouraging look to George.\n\nHe took no note of these, and, leaving the crowded sidewalks, turned\nnorth into National Avenue, and presently reached the quieter but no\nless begrimed region of smaller shops and old-fashioned houses. Those\nlatter had been the homes of his boyhood playmates; old friends of his\ngrandfather had lived here;--in this alley he had fought with two boys\nat the same time, and whipped them; in that front yard he had been\nsuccessfully teased into temporary insanity by a. Sunday-school class of\npinky little girls. On that sagging porch a laughing woman had fed\nhim and other boys with doughnuts and gingerbread; yonder he saw the\nstaggered relics of the iron picket fence he had made his white pony\njump, on a dare, and in the shabby, stone-faced house behind the fence\nhe had gone to children's parties, and, when he was a little older he\nhad danced there often, and fallen in love with Mary Sharon, and kissed\nher, apparently by force, under the stairs in the hall. The double front\ndoors, of meaninglessly carved walnut, once so glossily varnished, had\nbeen painted smoke gray, but the smoke grime showed repulsively, even on\nthe smoke gray; and over the doors a smoked sign proclaimed the place to\nbe a \"Stag Hotel.\"\n\nOther houses had become boarding-houses too genteel for signs, but many\nwere franker, some offering \"board by the day, week or meal,\" and some,\nmore laconic, contenting themselves with the label: \"Rooms.\" One,\nhaving torn out part of an old stone-trimmed bay window for purposes of\ncommercial display, showed forth two suspended petticoats and a pair\nof oyster-coloured flannel trousers to prove the claims of its\nblack-and-gilt sign: \"French Cleaning and Dye House.\" Its next neighbour\nalso sported a remodelled front and permitted no doubt that its mission\nin life was to attend cosily upon death: \"J. M. Rolsener. Caskets.\nThe Funeral Home.\" And beyond that, a plain old honest four-square\ngray-painted brick house was flamboyantly decorated with a great gilt\nscroll on the railing of the old-fashioned veranda: \"Mutual Benev't\nOrder Cavaliers and Dames of Purity.\" This was the old Minafer house.\n\nGeorge passed it without perceptibly wincing; in fact, he held his head\nup, and except for his gravity of countenance and the prison pallor he\nhad acquired by too constantly remaining indoors, there was little to\nwarn an acquaintance that he was not precisely the same George Amberson\nMinafer known aforetime. He was still so magnificent, indeed, that there\ncame to his ears a waft of comment from a passing automobile. This was a\nfearsome red car, glittering in brass, with half-a-dozen young people\nin it whose motorism had reached an extreme manifestation in dress. The\nladies of this party were favourably affected at sight of the pedestrian\nupon the sidewalk, and, as the machine was moving slowly, and close to\nthe curb, they had time to observe him in detail, which they did with a\nfrankness not pleasing to the object of their attentions. \"One sees so\nmany nice-looking people one doesn't know nowadays,\" said the youngest\nof the young ladies. \"This old town of ours is really getting enormous.\nI shouldn't mind knowing who he is.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" the youth beside her said, loudly enough to be heard at\na considerable distance. \"I don't know who he is, but from his looks I\nknow who he thinks he is: he thinks he's the Grand Duke Cuthbert!\" There\nwas a burst of tittering as the car gathered speed and rolled away, with\nthe girl continuing to look back until her scandalized companions forced\nher to turn by pulling her hood over her face. She made an impression\nupon George, so deep a one, in fact, that he unconsciously put his\nemotion into a muttered word:\n\nRiffraff!\n\nThis was the last \"walk home\" he was ever to take by the route he was\nnow following: up National Avenue to Amberson Addition and the two big\nold houses at the foot of Amberson Boulevard; for tonight would be the\nlast night that he and Fanny were to spend in the house which the Major\nhad forgotten to deed to Isabel. To-morrow they were to \"move out,\" and\nGeorge was to begin his work in Bronson's office. He had not come to\nthis collapse without a fierce struggle--but the struggle was inward,\nand the rolling world was not agitated by it, and rolled calmly on.\nFor of all the \"ideals of life\" which the world, in its rolling,\ninconsiderately flattens out to nothingness, the least likely to retain\na profile is that ideal which depends upon inheriting money. George\nAmberson, in spite of his record of failures in business, had spoken\nshrewdly when he realized at last that money, like life, was \"like\nquicksilver in a nest of cracks.\" And his nephew had the awakening\nexperience of seeing the great Amberson Estate vanishing into such\na nest--in a twinkling, it seemed, now that it was indeed so utterly\nvanished.\n\nHis uncle had suggested that he might write to college friends; perhaps\nthey could help him to something better than the prospect offered\nby Bronson's office; but George flushed and shook his head, without\nexplaining. In that small and quietly superior \"crowd\" of his he had too\nemphatically supported the ideal of being rather than doing. He could\nnot appeal to one of its members now to help him to a job. Besides, they\nwere not precisely the warmest-hearted crew in the world, and he had\nlong ago dropped the last affectation of a correspondence with any of\nthem. He was as aloof from any survival of intimacy with his boyhood\nfriends in the city, and, in truth, had lost track of most of them. \"The\nFriends of the Ace,\" once bound by oath to succour one another in peril\nor poverty, were long ago dispersed; one or two had died; one or two\nhad gone to live elsewhere; the others were disappeared into the smoky\nbigness of the heavy city. Of the brethren, there remained within\nhis present cognizance only his old enemy, the red-haired Kinney, now\nmarried to Janie Sharon, and Charlie Johnson, who, out of deference\nto his mother's memory, had passed the Amberson Mansion one day, when\nGeorge stood upon the front steps, and, looking in fiercely, had looked\naway with continued fierceness--his only token of recognition.\n\nOn this last homeward walk of his, when George reached the entrance\nto Amberson Addition--that is, when he came to where the entrance had\nformerly been--he gave a little start, and halted for a moment to stare.\nThis was the first time he had noticed that the stone pillars, marking\nthe entrance, had been removed. Then he realized that for a long time he\nhad been conscious of a queerness about this corner without being aware\nof what made the difference. National Avenue met Amberson Boulevard here\nat an obtuse angle, and the removal of the pillars made the Boulevard\nseem a cross-street of no overpowering importance--certainly it did not\nseem to be a boulevard!\n\nAt the next corner Neptune's Fountain remained, and one could still\ndetermine with accuracy what its designer's intentions had been. It\nstood in sore need of just one last kindness; and if the thing had\npossessed any friends they would have done that doleful shovelling after\ndark.\n\nGeorge did not let his eyes linger upon the relic; nor did he look\nsteadfastly at the Amberson Mansion. Massive as the old house was, it\nmanaged to look gaunt: its windows stared with the skull emptiness of\nall windows in empty houses that are to be lived in no more. Of course\nthe rowdy boys of the neighbourhood had been at work: many of these\nhaggard windows were broken; the front door stood ajar, forced open; and\nidiot salacity, in white chalk, was smeared everywhere upon the pillars\nand stonework of the verandas.\n\nGeorge walked by the Mansion hurriedly, and came home to his mother's\nhouse for the last time.\n\nEmptiness was there, too, and the closing of the door resounded through\nbare rooms; for downstairs there was no furniture in the house except a\nkitchen table in the dining room, which Fanny had kept \"for dinner,\" she\nsaid, though as she was to cook and serve that meal herself George had\nhis doubts about her name for it. Upstairs, she had retained her own\nfurniture, and George had been living in his mother's room, having sent\neverything from his own to the auction. Isabel's room was still as it\nhad been, but the furniture would be moved with Fanny's to new quarters\nin the morning. Fanny had made plans for her nephew as well as herself;\nshe had found a three-room \"kitchenette apartment\" in an apartment house\nwhere several old friends of hers had established themselves--elderly\nwidows of citizens once \"prominent\" and other retired gentry. People\nused their own \"kitchenettes\" for breakfast and lunch, but there was\na table-d'hote arrangement for dinner on the ground floor; and after\ndinner bridge was played all evening, an attraction powerful with\nFanny. She had \"made all the arrangements,\" she reported, and nervously\nappealed for approval, asking if she hadn't shown herself \"pretty\npractical\" in such matters. George acquiesced absent-mindedly, not\nthinking of what she said and not realizing to what it committed him.\n\nHe began to realize it now, as he wandered about the dismantled house;\nhe was far from sure that he was willing to go and live in a \"three-room\napartment\" with Fanny and eat breakfast and lunch with her (prepared by\nherself in the \"kitchenette\") and dinner at the table d'hote in \"such a\npretty Colonial dining room\" (so Fanny described it) at a little round\ntable they would have all to themselves in the midst of a dozen little\nround tables which other relics of disrupted families would have all to\nthemselves. For the first time, now that the change was imminent, George\nbegan to develop before his mind's eye pictures of what he was in for;\nand they appalled him. He decided that such a life verged upon the\nsheerly unbearable, and that after all there were some things left that\nhe just couldn't stand. So he made up his mind to speak to his aunt\nabout it at \"dinner,\" and tell her that he preferred to ask Bronson to\nlet him put a sofa-bed, a trunk, and a folding rubber bathtub behind a\nscreen in the dark rear room of the office. George felt that this\nwould be infinitely more tolerable; and he could eat at restaurants,\nespecially as about all he ever wanted nowadays was coffee.\n\nBut at \"dinner\" he decided to put off telling Fanny of his plan until\nlater: she was so nervous, and so distressed about the failure of her\nefforts with sweetbreads and macaroni; and she was so eager in her talk\nof how comfortable they would be \"by this time to-morrow night.\" She\nfluttered on, her nervousness increasing, saying how \"nice\" it would\nbe for him, when he came from work in the evenings, to be among \"nice\npeople--people who know who we are,\" and to have a pleasant game of\nbridge with \"people who are really old friends of the family?\"\n\nWhen they stopped probing among the scorched fragments she had set\nforth, George lingered downstairs, waiting for a better opportunity to\nintroduce his own subject, but when he heard dismaying sounds from the\nkitchen he gave up. There was a crash, then a shower of crashes; falling\ntin clamoured to be heard above the shattering of porcelain; and over\nall rose Fanny's wail of lamentation for the treasures saved from the\nsale, but now lost forever to the \"kitchenette.\" Fanny was nervous\nindeed; so nervous that she could not trust her hands.\n\nFor a moment George thought she might have been injured, but, before he\nreached the kitchen, he heard her sweeping at the fragments, and turned\nback. He put off speaking to Fanny until morning.\n\nThings more insistent than his vague plans for a sofa-bed in Bronson's\noffice had possession of his mind as he went upstairs, moving his hand\nslowly along the smooth walnut railing of the balustrade. Half way to\nthe landing he stopped, turned, and stood looking down at the heavy\ndoors masking the black emptiness that had been the library. Here he\nhad stood on what he now knew was the worst day of his life; here he had\nstood when his mother passed through that doorway, hand-in-hand with her\nbrother, to learn what her son had done.\n\nHe went on more heavily, more slowly; and, more heavily and slowly\nstill, entered Isabel's room and shut the door. He did not come forth\nagain, and bade Fanny good-night through the closed door when she\nstopped outside it later.\n\n\"I've put all the lights out, George,\" she said. \"Everything's all\nright.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" he called. \"Good-night.\"\n\nShe did not go. \"I'm sure we're going to enjoy the new little home,\nGeorge,\" she said timidly. \"I'll try hard to make things nice for you,\nand the people really are lovely. You mustn't feel as if things are\naltogether gloomy, George. I know everything's going to turn out all\nright. You're young and strong and you have a good mind and I'm sure--\"\nshe hesitated--\"I'm sure your mother's watching over you, Georgie.\nGood-night, dear.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Aunt Fanny.\"\n\nHis voice had a strangled sound in spite of him; but she seemed not to\nnotice it, and he heard her go to her own room and lock herself in with\nbolt and key against burglars. She had said the one thing she should\nnot have said just then: \"I'm sure your mother's watching over you,\nGeorgie.\" She had meant to be kind, but it destroyed his last chance for\nsleep that night. He would have slept little if she had not said it, but\nsince she had said it, he could not sleep at all. For he knew that it\nwas true--if it could be true--and that his mother, if she still lived\nin spirit, would be weeping on the other side of the wall of silence,\nweeping and seeking for some gate to let her through so that she could\ncome and \"watch over him.\"\n\nHe felt that if there were such gates they were surely barred: they\nwere like those awful library doors downstairs, which had shut her in to\nbegin the suffering to which he had consigned her.\n\nThe room was still Isabel's. Nothing had been changed: even the\nphotographs of George, of the Major, and of \"brother George\" still stood\non her dressing-table, and in a drawer of her desk was an old picture of\nEugene and Lucy, taken together, which George had found, but had slowly\nclosed away again from sight, not touching it. To-morrow everything\nwould be gone; and he had heard there was not long to wait before the\nhouse itself would be demolished. The very space which tonight was still\nIsabel's room would be cut into new shapes by new walls and floors and\nceilings; yet the room would always live, for it could not die out of\nGeorge's memory. It would live as long as he did, and it would always be\nmurmurous with a tragic, wistful whispering.\n\nAnd if space itself can be haunted, as memory is haunted, then some\ntime, when the space that was Isabel's room came to be made into the\nsmall bedrooms and \"kitchenettes\" already designed as its destiny, that\nspace might well be haunted and the new occupants come to feel that some\nseemingly causeless depression hung about it--a wraith of the passion\nthat filled it throughout the last night that George Minafer spent\nthere.\n\nWhatever remnants of the old high-handed arrogance were still within\nhim, he did penance for his deepest sin that night--and it may be that\nto this day some impressionable, overworked woman in a \"kitchenette,\"\nafter turning out the light will seem to see a young man kneeling in the\ndarkness, shaking convulsively, and, with arms outstretched through the\nwall, clutching at the covers of a shadowy bed. It may seem to her that\nshe hears the faint cry, over and over:\n\n\"Mother, forgive me! God, forgive me!\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXII\n\n\n\nAt least, it may be claimed for George that his last night in the house\nwhere he had been born was not occupied with his own disheartening\nfuture, but with sorrow for what sacrifices his pride and youth had\ndemanded of others. And early in the morning he came downstairs and\ntried to help Fanny make coffee on the kitchen range.\n\n\"There was something I wanted to say to you last night, Aunt Fanny,\" he\nsaid, as she finally discovered that an amber fluid, more like tea than\ncoffee, was as near ready to be taken into the human system as it would\never be. \"I think I'd better do it now.\"\n\nShe set the coffee-pot back upon the stove with a little crash, and,\nlooking at him in a desperate anxiety, began to twist her dainty apron\nbetween her fingers without any consciousness of what she was doing.\n\n\"Why--why--\" she stammered; but she knew what he was going to\nsay, and that was why she had been more and more nervous.\n\"Hadn't--perhaps--perhaps we'd better get the--the things moved to the\nlittle new home first, George. Let's--\"\n\nHe interrupted quietly, though at her phrase, \"the little new home,\" his\npungent impulse was to utter one loud shout and run. \"It was about this\nnew place that I wanted to speak. I've been thinking it over, and I've\ndecided. I want you to take all the things from mother's room and use\nthem and keep them for me, and I'm sure the little apartment will be\njust what you like; and with the extra bedroom probably you could find\nsome woman friend to come and live there, and share the expense with\nyou. But I've decided on another arrangement for myself, and so I'm not\ngoing with you. I don't suppose you'll mind much, and I don't see why\nyou should mind--particularly, that is. I'm not very lively company\nthese days, or any days, for that matter. I can't imagine you, or any\none else, being much attached to me, so--\"\n\nHe stopped in amazement: no chair had been left in the kitchen, but\nFanny gave a despairing glance around her, in search of one, then sank\nabruptly, and sat flat upon the floor.\n\n\"You're going to leave me in the lurch!\" she gasped.\n\n\"What on earth--\" George sprang to her. \"Get up, Aunt Fanny!\"\n\n\"I can't. I'm too weak. Let me alone, George!\" And as he released the\nwrist he had seized to help her, she repeated the dismal prophecy which\nfor days she had been matching against her hopes: \"You're going to leave\nme--in the lurch!\"\n\n\"Why no, Aunt Fanny!\" he protested. \"At first I'd have been something\nof a burden on you. I'm to get eight dollars a week; about thirty-two\na month. The rent's thirty-six dollars a month, and the table-d'hote\ndinner runs up to over twenty-two dollars apiece, so with my half of the\nrent--eighteen dollars--I'd have less than nothing left out of my salary\nto pay my share of the groceries for all the breakfasts and luncheons.\nYou see you'd not only be doing all the housework and cooking, but you'd\nbe paying more of the expenses than I would.\"\n\nShe stared at him with such a forlorn blankness as he had never seen.\n\"I'd be paying--\" she said feebly. \"I'd be paying--\"\n\n\"Certainly you would. You'd be using more of your money than--\"\n\n\"My money!\" Fanny's chin drooped upon her thin chest, and she laughed\nmiserably. \"I've got twenty-eight dollars. That's all.\"\n\n\"You mean until the interest is due again?\"\n\n\"I mean that's all,\" Fanny said. \"I mean that's all there is. There\nwon't be any more interest because there isn't any principal.\"\n\n\"Why, you told--\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"No, I haven't told you anything.\"\n\n\"Then it was Uncle George. He told me you had enough to fall back on.\nThat's just what he said: 'to fall back on.' He said you'd lost more\nthan you should, in the headlight company, but he'd insisted that you\nshould hold out enough to live on, and you'd very wisely followed his\nadvice.\"\n\n\"I know,\" she said weakly. \"I told him so. He didn't know, or else he'd\nforgotten, how much Wilbur's insurance amounted to, and I--oh, it seemed\nsuch a sure way to make a real fortune out of a little--and I thought I\ncould do something for you, George, if you ever came to need it--and it\nall looked so bright I just thought I'd put it all in. I did--every cent\nexcept my last interest payment--and it's gone.\"\n\n\"Good Lord!\" George began to pace up and down on the worn planks of the\nbare floor. \"Why on earth did you wait till now to tell such a thing as\nthis?\"\n\n\"I couldn't tell till I had to,\" she said piteously. \"I couldn't till\nGeorge Amberson went away. He couldn't do anything to help, anyhow, and\nI just didn't want him to talk to me about it--he's been at me so much\nabout not putting more in than I could afford to lose, and said he\nconsidered he had my--my word I wasn't putting more than that in it. So\nI thought: What was the use? What was the use of going over it all\nwith him and having him reproach me, and probably reproach himself?\nIt wouldn't do any good--not any good on earth.\" She got out her lace\nhandkerchief and began to cry. \"Nothing does any good, I guess, in this\nold world. Oh, how tired of this old world I am! I didn't know what to\ndo. I just tried to go ahead and be as practical as I could, and arrange\nsome way for us to live. Oh, I knew you didn't want me, George! You\nalways teased me and berated me whenever you had a chance from the time\nyou were a little boy--you did so! Later, you've tried to be kinder to\nme, but you don't want me around--oh, I can see that much! You don't\nsuppose I want to thrust myself on you, do you? It isn't very pleasant\nto be thrusting yourself on a person you know doesn't want you--but I\nknew you oughtn't to be left all alone in the world; it isn't good. I\nknew your mother'd want me to watch over you and try to have something\nlike a home for you--I know she'd want me to do what I tried to do!\"\nFanny's tears were bitter now, and her voice, hoarse and wet, was\ntragically sincere. \"I tried--I tried to be practical--to look after\nyour interests--to make things as nice for you as I could--I walked my\nheels down looking for a place for us to live--I walked and walked over\nthis town--I didn't ride one block on a street-car--I wouldn't use five\ncents no matter how tired I--Oh!\" She sobbed uncontrollably. \"Oh! and\nnow--you don't want--you want--you want to leave me in the lurch! You--\"\n\nGeorge stopped walking. \"In God's name, Aunt Fanny,\" he said, \"quit\nspreading out your handkerchief and drying it and then getting it all\nwet again! I mean stop crying! Do! And for heaven's sake, get up. Don't\nsit there with your back against the boiler and--\"\n\n\"It's not hot,\" Fanny sniffled. \"It's cold; the plumbers disconnected\nit. I wouldn't mind if they hadn't. I wouldn't mind if it burned me,\nGeorge.\"\n\n\"Oh, my Lord!\" He went to her, and lifted her. \"For God's sake, get up!\nCome, let's take the coffee into the other room, and see what's to be\ndone.\"\n\nHe got her to her feet; she leaned upon him, already somewhat comforted,\nand, with his arm about her, he conducted her to the dining room and\nseated her in one of the two kitchen chairs which had been placed at\nthe rough table. \"There!\" he said, \"get over it!\" Then he brought the\ncoffee-pot, some lumps of sugar in a tin pan, and, finding that all the\ncoffee-cups were broken, set water glasses upon the table, and poured\nsome of the pale coffee into them. By this time Fanny's spirits had\nrevived appreciably: she looked up with a plaintive eagerness. \"I had\nbought all my fall clothes, George,\" she said; \"and I paid every bill I\nowed. I don't owe a cent for clothes, George.\"\n\n\"That's good,\" he said wanly, and he had a moment of physical dizziness\nthat decided him to sit down quickly. For an instant it seemed to him\nthat he was not Fanny's nephew, but married to her. He passed his pale\nhand over his paler forehead. \"Well, let's see where we stand,\" he said\nfeebly. \"Let's see if we can afford this place you've selected.\"\n\nFanny continued to brighten. \"I'm sure it's the most practical plan we\ncould possibly have worked out, George--and it is a comfort to be among\nnice people. I think we'll both enjoy it, because the truth is we've\nbeen keeping too much to ourselves for a long while. It isn't good for\npeople.\"\n\n\"I was thinking about the money, Aunt Fanny. You see--\"\n\n\"I'm sure we can manage it,\" she interrupted quickly. \"There really\nisn't a cheaper place in town that we could actually live in and be--\"\nHere she interrupted herself. \"Oh! There's one great economy I forgot to\ntell you, and it's especially an economy for you, because you're always\ntoo generous about such things: they don't allow any tipping. They have\nsigns that prohibit it.\"\n\n\"That's good,\" he said grimly. \"But the rent is thirty-six dollars a\nmonth; the dinner is twenty-two and a half for each of us, and we've got\nto have some provision for other food. We won't need any clothes for a\nyear, perhaps--\"\n\n\"Oh, longer!\" she exclaimed. \"So you see--\"\n\n\"I see that forty-five and thirty-six make eighty-one,\" he said. \"At\nthe lowest, we need a hundred dollars a month--and I'm going to make\nthirty-two.\"\n\n\"I thought of that, George,\" she said confidently, \"and I'm sure it will\nbe all right. You'll be earning a great deal more than that very soon.\"\n\n\"I don't see any prospect of it--not till I'm admitted to the bar, and\nthat will be two years at the earliest.\"\n\nFanny's confidence was not shaken. \"I know you'll be getting on faster\nthan--\"\n\n\"Faster?\" George echoed gravely. \"We've got to have more than that to\nstart with.\"\n\n\"Well, there's the six hundred dollars from the sale. Six hundred and\ntwelve dollars it was.\"\n\n\"It isn't six hundred and twelve now,\" said George. \"It's about one\nhundred and sixty.\"\n\nFanny showed a momentary dismay. \"Why, how--\"\n\n\"I lent Uncle George two hundred; I gave fifty apiece to old Sam and\nthose two other old darkies that worked for grandfather so long, and ten\nto each of the servants here--\"\n\n\"And you gave me thirty-six,\" she said thoughtfully, \"for the first\nmonth's rent, in advance.\"\n\n\"Did I? I'd forgotten. Well, with about a hundred and sixty in bank and\nour expenses a hundred a month, it doesn't seem as if this new place--\"\n\n\"Still,\" she interrupted, \"we have paid the first month's rent in\nadvance, and it does seem to be the most practical--\"\n\nGeorge rose. \"See here, Aunt Fanny,\" he said decisively. \"You stay here\nand look after the moving. Old Frank doesn't expect me until afternoon,\nthis first day, but I'll go and see him now.\"\n\nIt was early, and old Frank, just established at his big, flat-topped\ndesk, was surprised when his prospective assistant and pupil walked\nin. He was pleased, as well as surprised, however, and rose, offering\na cordial old hand. \"The real flare!\" he said. \"The real flare for the\nlaw. That's right! Couldn't wait till afternoon to begin! I'm delighted\nthat you--\"\n\n\"I wanted to say--\" George began, but his patron cut him off.\n\n\"Wait just a minute, my boy. I've prepared a little speech of welcome,\nand even though you're five hours ahead of time, I mean to deliver\nit. First of all, your grandfather was my old war-comrade and my best\nclient; for years I prospered through my connection with his business,\nand his grandson is welcome in my office and to my best efforts in his\nbehalf. But I want to confess, Georgie, that during your earlier youth I\nmay have had some slight feeling of--well, prejudice, not altogether in\nyour favour; but whatever slight feeling it was, it began to vanish on\nthat afternoon, a good while ago, when you stood up to your Aunt Amelia\nAmberson as you did in the Major's library, and talked to her as a man\nand a gentleman should. I saw then what good stuff was in you--and I\nalways wanted to mention it. If my prejudice hadn't altogether vanished\nafter that, the last vestiges disappeared during these trying times that\nhave come upon you this past year, when I have been a witness to the\ndepth of feeling you've shown and your quiet consideration for your\ngrandfather and for everyone else around you. I just want to add that I\nthink you'll find an honest pleasure now in industry and frugality\nthat wouldn't have come to you in a more frivolous career. The law is a\njealous mistress and a stern mistress, but a--\"\n\nGeorge had stood before him in great and increasing embarrassment; and\nhe was unable to allow the address to proceed to its conclusion.\n\n\"I can't do it!\" he burst out. \"I can't take her for my mistress.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I've come to tell you, I've got to find something that's quicker. I\ncan't--\"\n\nOld Frank got a little red. \"Let's sit down,\" he said. \"What's the\ntrouble?\"\n\nGeorge told him.\n\nThe old gentleman listened sympathetically, only murmuring: \"Well,\nwell!\" from time to time, and nodding acquiescence.\n\n\"You see she's set her mind on this apartment,\" George explained. \"She's\ngot some old cronies there, and I guess she's been looking forward to\nthe games of bridge and the kind of harmless gossip that goes on in such\nplaces. Really, it's a life she'd like better than anything else--better\nthan that she's lived at home, I really believe. It struck me she's\njust about got to have it, and after all she could hardly have anything\nless.\"\n\n\"This comes pretty heavily upon me, you know,\" said old Frank. \"I got\nher into that headlight company, and she fooled me about her resources\nas much as she did your Uncle George. I was never your father's adviser,\nif you remember, and when the insurance was turned over to her some\nother lawyer arranged it--probably your father's. But it comes pretty\nheavily on me, and I feel a certain responsibility.\"\n\n\"Not at all. I'm taking the responsibility.\"\n\nAnd George smiled with one corner of his mouth. \"She's not your aunt,\nyou know, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm unable to see, even if she's yours, that a young man is\nmorally called upon to give up a career at the law to provide his aunt\nwith a favourable opportunity to play bridge whist!\"\n\n\"No,\" George agreed. \"But I haven't begun my 'career at the law' so it\ncan't be said I'm making any considerable sacrifice. I'll tell you how\nit is, sir.\" He flushed, and, looking out of the streaked and smoky\nwindow beside which he was sitting, spoke with difficulty. \"I feel as\nif--as if perhaps I had one or two pretty important things in my life\nto make up for. Well, I can't. I can't make them up to--to whom I\nwould. It's struck me that, as I couldn't, I might be a little decent\nto somebody else, perhaps--if I could manage it! I never have been\nparticularly decent to poor old Aunt Fanny.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know: I shouldn't say that. A little youthful teasing--I\ndoubt if she's minded so much. She felt your father's death\nterrifically, of course, but it seems to me she's had a fairly\ncomfortable life-up to now--if she was disposed to take it that way.\"\n\n\"But 'up to now' is the important thing,\" George said. \"Now is now--and\nyou see I can't wait two years to be admitted to the bar and begin to\npractice. I've got to start in at something else that pays from the\nstart, and that's what I've come to you about. I have an idea, you see.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm glad of that!\" said old Frank, smiling. \"I can't think of\nanything just at this minute that pays from the start.\"\n\n\"I only know of one thing, myself.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\nGeorge flushed again, but managed to laugh at his own embarrassment. \"I\nsuppose I'm about as ignorant of business as anybody in the world,\" he\nsaid. \"But I've heard they pay very high wages to people in dangerous\ntrades; I've always heard they did, and I'm sure it must be true. I mean\npeople that handle touchy chemicals or high explosives--men in dynamite\nfactories, or who take things of that sort about the country in wagons,\nand shoot oil wells. I thought I'd see if you couldn't tell me something\nmore about it, or else introduce me to someone who could, and then I\nthought I'd see if I couldn't get something of the kind to do as soon as\npossible. My nerves are good; I'm muscular, and I've got a steady hand;\nit seemed to me that this was about the only line of work in the world\nthat I'm fitted for. I wanted to get started to-day if I could.\"\n\nOld Frank gave him a long stare. At first this scrutiny was sharply\nincredulous; then it was grave; finally it developed into a threat of\noverwhelming laughter; a forked vein in his forehead became more visible\nand his eyes seemed about to protrude.\n\nBut he controlled his impulse; and, rising, took up his hat and\novercoat. \"All right,\" he said. \"If you'll promise not to get blown up,\nI'll go with you to see if we can find the job.\" Then, meaning what he\nsaid, but amazed that he did mean it, he added: \"You certainly are the\nmost practical young man I ever met!\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIII\n\n\nThey found the job. It needed an apprenticeship of only six weeks,\nduring which period George was to receive fifteen dollars a week; after\nthat he would get twenty-eight. This settled the apartment question, and\nFanny was presently established in a greater contentment than she had\nknown for a long time. Early every morning she made something she called\n(and believed to be) coffee for George, and he was gallant enough not\nto undeceive her. She lunched alone in her \"kitchenette,\" for George's\nplace of employment was ten miles out of town on an interurban\ntrolley-line, and he seldom returned before seven. Fanny found partners\nfor bridge by two o'clock almost every afternoon, and she played until\nabout six. Then she got George's \"dinner clothes\" out for him--he\nmaintained this habit--and she changed her own dress. When he arrived\nhe usually denied that he was tired, though he sometimes looked tired,\nparticularly during the first few months; and he explained to her\nfrequently--looking bored enough with her insistence--that his work was\n\"fairly light, and fairly congenial, too.\" Fanny had the foggiest idea\nof what it was, though she noticed that it roughened his hands and\nstained them. \"Something in those new chemical works,\" she explained to\ncasual inquirers. It was not more definite in her own mind.\n\nRespect for George undoubtedly increased within her, however, and\nshe told him she'd always had a feeling he might \"turn out to be a\nmechanical genius, or something.\" George assented with a nod, as the\neasiest course open to him. He did not take a hand at bridge after\ndinner: his provisions' for Fanny's happiness refused to extend that\nfar, and at the table d'hote he was a rather discouraging boarder. He\nwas considered \"affected\" and absurdly \"up-stage\" by the one or two\nyoung men, and the three or four young women, who enlivened the elderly\nretreat; and was possibly less popular there than he had been elsewhere\nduring his life, though he was now nothing worse than a coldly polite\nyoung man who kept to himself. After dinner he would escort his aunt\nfrom the table in some state (not wholly unaccompanied by a leerish wink\nor two from the wags of the place) and he would leave her at the door\nof the communal parlours and card rooms, with a formality in his bow of\nfarewell which afforded an amusing contrast to Fanny's always voluble\nprotests. (She never failed to urge loudly that he really must come and\nplay, just this once, and not go hiding from everybody in his room every\nevening like this!) At least some of the other inhabitants found the\ncontrast amusing, for sometimes, as he departed stiffly toward the\nelevator, leaving her still entreating in the doorway (though with one\neye already on her table, to see that it was not seized) a titter would\nfollow him which he was no doubt meant to hear. He did not care whether\nthey laughed or not.\n\nAnd once, as he passed the one or two young men of the place\nentertaining the three or four young women, who were elbowing and\njerking on a settee in the lobby, he heard a voice inquiring quickly, as\nhe passed:\n\n\"What makes people tired?\"\n\n\"Work?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, what's the answer?\"\n\nThen, with an intentional outbreak of mirth, the answer was given by two\nloudly whispering voices together:\n\n\"A stuck-up boarder!\"\n\nGeorge didn't care.\n\nOn Sunday mornings Fanny went to church and George took long walks. He\nexplored the new city, and found it hideous, especially in the early\nspring, before the leaves of the shade trees were out. Then the town was\nfagged with the long winter and blacked with the heavier smoke that had\nbeen held close to the earth by the smoke-fog it bred. Every-thing was\ndamply streaked with the soot: the walls of the houses, inside and out,\nthe gray curtains at the windows, the windows themselves, the dirty\ncement and unswept asphalt underfoot, the very sky overhead. Throughout\nthis murky season he continued his explorations, never seeing a face he\nknew--for, on Sunday, those whom he remembered, or who might remember\nhim, were not apt to be found within the limits of the town, but were\ncongenially occupied with the new outdoor life which had come to be the\nmode since his boyhood. He and Fanny were pretty thoroughly buried away\nwithin the bigness of the city.\n\nOne of his Sunday walks, that spring, he made into a sour pilgrimage.\nIt was a misty morning of belated snow slush, and suited him to a\nperfection of miserableness, as he stood before the great dripping\ndepartment store which now occupied the big plot of ground where once\nhad stood both the Amberson Hotel and the Amberson Opera House. From\nthere he drifted to the old \"Amberson Block,\" but this was fallen into a\nback-water; business had stagnated here. The old structure had not\nbeen replaced, but a cavernous entryway for trucks had been torn in its\nfront, and upon the cornice, where the old separate metal letters\nhad spelt \"Amberson Block,\" there was a long billboard sign: \"Doogan\nStorage.\"\n\nTo spare himself nothing, he went out National Avenue and saw the piles\nof slush-covered wreckage where the Mansion and his mother's house had\nbeen, and where the Major's ill-fated five \"new\" houses had stood; for\nthese were down, too, to make room for the great tenement already shaped\nin unending lines of foundation. But the Fountain of Neptune was gone at\nlast--and George was glad that it was!\n\nHe turned away from the devastated site, thinking bitterly that the\nonly Amberson mark still left upon the town was the name of the\nboulevard--Amberson Boulevard. But he had reckoned without the city\ncouncil of the new order, and by an unpleasant coincidence, while the\nthought was still in his mind, his eye fell upon a metal oblong sign\nupon the lamppost at the corner. There were two of these little signs\nupon the lamp-post, at an obtuse angle to each other, one to give\npassers-by the name of National Avenue, the other to acquaint them with\nAmberson Boulevard. But the one upon which should have been stenciled\n\"Amberson Boulevard\" exhibited the words \"Tenth Street.\"\n\nGeorge stared at it hard. Then he walked quickly along the boulevard to\nthe next corner and looked at the little sign there. \"Tenth Street.\"\n\nIt had begun to rain, but George stood unheeding, staring at the little\nsign. \"Damn them!\" he said finally, and, turning up his coat-collar,\nplodded back through the soggy streets toward \"home.\"\n\nThe utilitarian impudence of the city authorities put a thought into his\nmind. A week earlier he had happened to stroll into the large parlour\nof the apartment house, finding it empty, and on the center table he\nnoticed a large, red-bound, gilt-edged book, newly printed, bearing\nthe title: \"A Civic History,\" and beneath the title, the rubric,\n\"Biographies of the 500 Most Prominent Citizens and Families in the\nHistory of the City.\" He had glanced at it absently, merely noticing\nthe title and sub-title, and wandered out of the room, thinking of other\nthings and feeling no curiosity about the book. But he had thought of\nit several times since with a faint, vague uneasiness; and now when he\nentered the lobby he walked directly into the parlour where he had seen\nthe book. The room was empty, as it always was on Sunday mornings, and\nthe flamboyant volume was still upon the table--evidently a fixture as\na sort of local Almanach de Gotha, or Burke, for the enlightenment of\ntenants and boarders.\n\nHe opened it, finding a few painful steel engravings of placid,\nchin-bearded faces, some of which he remembered dimly; but much more\nnumerous, and also more unfamiliar to him, were the pictures of\nneat, aggressive men, with clipped short hair and clipped short\nmoustaches--almost all of them strangers to him. He delayed not long\nwith these, but turned to the index where the names of the five hundred\nMost Prominent Citizens and Families in the History of the City were\narranged in alphabetical order, and ran his finger down the column of\nA's:\n\nAbbett Abbott Abrams Adam Adams Adler Akers Albertsmeyer Alexander\nAllen Ambrose Ambuhl Anderson Andrews Appenbasch Archer Arszman Ashcraft\nAustin Avey\n\nGeorge's eyes remained for some time fixed on the thin space between the\nnames \"Allen\" and \"Ambrose.\" Then he closed the book quietly, and went\nup to his own room, agreeing with the elevator boy, on the way, that it\nwas getting to be a mighty nasty wet and windy day outside.\n\nThe elevator boy noticed nothing unusual about him and neither did\nFanny, when she came in from church with her hat ruined, an hour later.\nAnd yet something had happened--a thing which, years ago, had been the\neagerest hope of many, many good citizens of the town. They had thought\nof it, longed for it, hoping acutely that they might live to see the\nday when it would come to pass. And now it had happened at last: Georgie\nMinafer had got his come-upance.\n\nHe had got it three times filled and running over. The city had rolled\nover his heart, burying it under, as it rolled over the Major's and\nburied it under. The city had rolled over the Ambersons and buried them\nunder to the last vestige; and it mattered little that George guessed\neasily enough that most of the five hundred Most Prominent had paid\nsomething substantial \"to defray the cost of steel engraving, etc.\"--the\nFive Hundred had heaved the final shovelful of soot upon that heap\nof obscurity wherein the Ambersons were lost forever from sight and\nhistory. \"Quicksilver in a nest of cracks!\"\n\nGeorgie Minafer had got his come-upance, but the people who had so\nlonged for it were not there to see it, and they never knew it. Those\nwho were still living had forgotten all about it and all about him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIV\n\n\n\nThere was one border section of the city which George never explored in\nhis Sunday morning excursions. This was far out to the north where lay\nthe new Elysian Fields of the millionaires, though he once went as far\nin that direction as the white house which Lucy had so admired long\nago--her \"Beautiful House.\" George looked at it briefly and turned back,\nrumbling with an interior laugh of some grimness. The house was white no\nlonger; nothing could be white which the town had reached, and the town\nreached far beyond the beautiful white house now. The owners had given\nup and painted it a despairing chocolate, suitable to the freight-yard\nlife it was called upon to endure.\n\nGeorge did not again risk going even so far as that, in the direction\nof the millionaires, although their settlement began at least two miles\nfarther out. His thought of Lucy and her father was more a sensation\nthan a thought, and may be compared to that of a convicted cashier beset\nby recollections of the bank he had pillaged--there are some thoughts to\nwhich one closes the mind. George had seen Eugene only once since their\ncalamitous encounter. They had passed on opposite sides of the street,\ndowntown; each had been aware of the other, and each had been aware that\nthe other was aware of him, and yet each kept his eyes straight forward,\nand neither had shown a perceptible alteration of countenance. It seemed\nto George that he felt emanating from the outwardly imperturbable person\nof his mother's old friend a hate that was like a hot wind.\n\nAt his mother's funeral and at the Major's he had been conscious that\nEugene was there: though he had afterward no recollection of seeing him,\nand, while certain of his presence, was uncertain how he knew of it.\nFanny had not told him, for she understood George well enough not to\nspeak to him of Eugene or Lucy. Nowadays Fanny almost never saw either\nof them and seldom thought of them--so sly is the way of time with life.\nShe was passing middle age, when old intensities and longings grow thin\nand flatten out, as Fanny herself was thinning and flattening out; and\nshe was settling down contentedly to her apartment house intimacies.\nShe was precisely suited by the table-d'hote life, with its bridge,\nits variable alliances and shifting feuds, and the long whisperings\nof elderly ladies at corridor corners--those eager but suppressed\nconversations, all sibilance, of which the elevator boy declared he\nheard the words \"she said\" a million times and the word \"she,\" five\nmillion. The apartment house suited Fanny and swallowed her.\n\nThe city was so big, now, that people disappeared into it unnoticed, and\nthe disappearance of Fanny and her nephew was not exceptional. People no\nlonger knew their neighbours as a matter of course; one lived for years\nnext door to strangers--that sharpest of all the changes since the old\ndays--and a friend would lose sight of a friend for a year, and not know\nit.\n\nOne May day George thought he had a glimpse of Lucy. He was not certain,\nbut he was sufficiently disturbed, in spite of his uncertainty. A\npromotion in his work now frequently took him out of town for a week,\nor longer, and it was upon his return from one of these absences that he\nhad the strange experience. He had walked home from the station, and as\nhe turned the corner which brought him in sight of the apartment house\nentrance, though two blocks distant from it, he saw a charming little\nfigure come out, get into a shiny landaulet automobile, and drive away.\nEven at that distance no one could have any doubt that the little figure\nwas charming; and the height, the quickness and decision of motion,\neven the swift gesture of a white glove toward the chauffeur--all were\ncharacteristic of Lucy. George was instantly subjected to a shock of\nindefinable nature, yet definitely a shock: he did not know what he\nfelt--but he knew that he felt. Heat surged over him: probably he\nwould not have come face to face with her if the restoration of all the\nancient Amberson magnificence could have been his reward. He went on\nslowly, his knees shaky.\n\nBut he found Fanny not at home; she had been out all afternoon; and\nthere was no record of any caller--and he began to wonder, then to doubt\nif the small lady he had seen in the distance was Lucy. It might as well\nhave been, he said to himself--since any one who looked like her could\ngive him \"a jolt like that!\"\n\nLucy had not left a card. She never left one when she called on Fanny;\nthough she did not give her reasons a quite definite form in her own\nmind. She came seldom; this was but the third time that year, and,\nwhen she did come, George was not mentioned either by her hostess or by\nherself--an oddity contrived between the two ladies without either of\nthem realizing how odd it was. For, naturally, while Fanny was with\nLucy, Fanny thought of George, and what time Lucy had George's\naunt before her eyes she could not well avoid the thought of him.\nConsequently, both looked absent-minded as they talked, and each often\ngave a wrong answer which the other consistently failed to notice.\n\nAt other times Lucy's thoughts of George were anything but continuous,\nand weeks went by when he was not consciously in her mind at all. Her\nlife was a busy one: she had the big house \"to keep up\"; she had a\ngarden to keep up, too, a large and beautiful garden; she represented\nher father as a director for half a dozen public charity organizations,\nand did private charity work of her own, being a proxy mother of several\nlarge families; and she had \"danced down,\" as she said, groups from\neight or nine classes of new graduates returned from the universities,\nwithout marrying any of them, but she still danced--and still did not\nmarry.\n\nHer father, observing this circumstance happily, yet with some\nhypocritical concern, spoke of it to her one day as they stood in her\ngarden. \"I suppose I'd want to shoot him,\" he said, with attempted\nlightness. \"But I mustn't be an old pig. I'd build you a beautiful house\nclose by--just over yonder.\"\n\n\"No, no! That would be like--\" she began impulsively; then checked\nherself. George Amberson's comparison of the Georgian house to the\nAmberson Mansion had come into her mind, and she thought that another\nnew house, built close by for her, would be like the house the Major\nbuilt for Isabel.\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\" She looked serious, and when he reverted to his idea of \"some\nday\" grudgingly surrendering her up to a suitor, she invented a legend.\n\"Did you ever hear the Indian name for that little grove of beech trees\non the other side of the house?\" she asked him.\n\n\"No--and you never did either!\" he laughed.\n\n\"Don't be so sure! I read a great deal more than I used to--getting\nready for my bookish days when I'll have to do something solid in the\nevenings and won't be asked to dance any more, even by the very youngest\nboys who think it's a sporting event to dance with the oldest of the\n'older girls'. The name of the grove was 'Loma-Nashah' and it means\n'They-Couldn't-Help-It'.\"\n\n\"Doesn't sound like it.\"\n\n\"Indian names don't. There was a bad Indian chief lived in the grove\nbefore the white settlers came. He was the worst Indian that\never lived, and his name was--it was 'Vendonah.' That means\n'Rides-Down-Everything'.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"His name was Vendonah, the same thing as Rides-Down-Everything.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Eugene thoughtfully. He gave her a quick look and then\nfixed his eyes upon the end of the garden path. \"Go on.\"\n\n\"Vendonah was an unspeakable case,\" Lucy continued. \"He was so proud\nthat he wore iron shoes and he walked over people's faces with them.\nhe was always killing people that way, and so at last the tribe decided\nthat it wasn't a good enough excuse for him that he was young and\ninexperienced--he'd have to go. They took him down to the river, and put\nhim in a canoe, and pushed him out from shore; and then they ran along\nthe bank and wouldn't let him land, until at last the current carried\nthe canoe out into the middle, and then on down to the ocean, and he\nnever got back. They didn't want him back, of course, and if he'd been\nable to manage it, they'd have put him in another canoe and shoved him\nout into the river again. But still, they didn't elect another chief in\nhis place. Other tribes thought that was curious, and wondered about\nit a lot, but finally they came to the conclusion that the beech grove\npeople were afraid a new chief might turn out to be a bad Indian, too,\nand wear iron shoes like Vendonah. But they were wrong, because the real\nreason was that the tribe had led such an exciting life under Vendonah\nthat they couldn't settle down to anything tamer. He was awful, but he\nalways kept things happening--terrible things, of course. They hated\nhim, but they weren't able to discover any other warrior that they\nwanted to make chief in his place. I suppose it was a little like\ndrinking a glass of too strong wine and then trying to take the taste\nout of your mouth with barley water. They couldn't help feeling that\nway.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Eugene. \"So that's why they named the place\n'They-Couldn't-Help-It'!\"\n\n\"It must have been.\"\n\n\"And so you're going to stay here in your garden,\" he said musingly.\n\"You think it's better to keep on walking these sunshiny gravel paths\nbetween your flower-beds, and growing to look like a pensive garden lady\nin a Victorian engraving.\"\n\n\"I suppose I'm like the tribe that lived here, papa. I had too much\nunpleasant excitement. It was unpleasant--but it was excitement. I don't\nwant any more; in fact, I don't want anything but you.\"\n\n\"You don't?\" He looked at her keenly, and she laughed and shook her\nhead; but he seemed perplexed, rather doubtful. \"What was the name of\nthe grove?\" he asked. \"The Indian name, I mean.\"\n\n\"Mola-Haha.\"\n\n\"No, it wasn't; that wasn't the name you said.\"\n\n\"I've forgotten.\"\n\n\"I see you have,\" he said, his look of perplexity remaining. \"Perhaps\nyou remember the chief's name better.\"\n\nShe shook her head again. \"I don't!\"\n\nAt this he laughed, but not very heartily, and walked slowly to the\nhouse, leaving her bending over a rose-bush, and a shade more pensive\nthan the most pensive garden lady in any Victorian engraving.\n\n... Next day, it happened that this same \"Vendonah\" or\n\"Rides-Down-Everything\" became the subject of a chance conversation\nbetween Eugene and his old friend Kinney, father of the fire-topped\nFred. The two gentlemen found themselves smoking in neighbouring leather\nchairs beside a broad window at the club, after lunch.\n\nMr. Kinney had remarked that he expected to get his family established\nat the seashore by the Fourth of July, and, following a train of\nthought, he paused and chuckled. \"Fourth of July reminds me,\" he said.\n\"Have you heard what that Georgie Minafer is doing?\"\n\n\"No, I haven't,\" said Eugene, and his friend failed to notice the\ncrispness of the utterance.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" Kinney chuckled again, \"it beats the devil! My boy Fred\ntold me about it yesterday. He's a friend of this young Henry Akers, son\nof F. P. Akers of the Akers Chemical Company. It seems this young Akers\nasked Fred if he knew a fellow named Minafer, because he knew Fred had\nalways lived here, and young Akers had heard some way that Minafer used\nto be an old family name here, and was sort of curious about it. Well,\nsir, you remember this young Georgie sort of disappeared, after his\ngrandfather's death, and nobody seemed to know much what had become\nof him--though I did hear, once or twice, that he was still around\nsomewhere. Well, sir, he's working for the Akers Chemical Company, out\nat their plant on the Thomasvile Road.\"\n\nHe paused, seeming to reserve something to be delivered only upon\ninquiry, and Eugene offered him the expected question, but only after a\ncold glance through the nose-glasses he had lately found it necessary to\nadopt. \"What does he do?\"\n\nKinney laughed and slapped the arm of his chair.\n\n\"He's a nitroglycerin expert!\"\n\nHe was gratified to see that Eugene was surprised, if not, indeed, a\nlittle startled.\n\n\"He's what?\"\n\n\"He's an expert on nitroglycerin. Doesn't that beat the devil! Yes,\nsir! Young Akers told Fred that this George Minafer had worked like\na houn'-dog ever since he got started out at the works. They have\na special plant for nitroglycerin, way off from the main plant, o'\ncourse--in the woods somewhere--and George Minafer's been working there,\nand lately they put him in charge of it. He oversees shooting oil-wells,\ntoo, and shoots 'em himself, sometimes. They aren't allowed to carry\nit on the railroads, you know--have to team it. Young Akers says George\nrides around over the bumpy roads, sitting on as much as three hundred\nquarts of nitroglycerin! My Lord! Talk about romantic tumbles! If he\ngets blown sky-high some day he won't have a bigger drop, when he comes\ndown, than he's already had! Don't it beat the devil! Young Akers said\nhe's got all the nerve there is in the world. Well, he always did have\nplenty of that--from the time he used to ride around here on his white\npony and fight all the Irish boys in Can-Town, with his long curls all\nhandy to be pulled out. Akers says he gets a fair salary, and I should\nthink he ought to! Seems to me I've heard the average life in that\nsort of work is somewhere around four years, and agents don't write any\ninsurance at all for nitroglycerin experts. Hardly!\"\n\n\"No,\" said Eugene. \"I suppose not.\"\n\nKinney rose to go. \"Well, it's a pretty funny thing--pretty odd, I\nmean--and I suppose it would be pass-around-the-hat for old Fanny\nMinafer if he blew up. Fred told me that they're living in some\napartment house, and said Georgie supports her. He was going to study\nlaw, but couldn't earn enough that way to take care of Fanny, so he gave\nit up. Fred's wife told him all this. Says Fanny doesn't do anything but\nplay bridge these days. Got to playing too high for awhile and lost more\nthan she wanted to tell Georgie about, and borrowed a little from old\nFrank Bronson. Paid him back, though. Don't know how Fred's wife heard\nit. Women do' hear the darndest things!\"\n\n\"They do,\" Eugene agreed.\n\n\"I thought you'd probably heard about it--thought most likely Fred's\nwife might have said something to your daughter, especially as they're\ncousins.\"\n\n\"I think not.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm off to the store,\" said Mr. Kinney briskly; yet he lingered.\n\"I suppose we'll all have to club in and keep old Fanny out of the\npoorhouse if he does blow up. From all I hear it's usually only a\nquestion of time. They say she hasn't got anything else to depend on.\"\n\n\"I suppose not.\"\n\n\"Well--I wondered--\" Kinney hesitated. \"I was wondering why you hadn't\nthought of finding something around your works for him. They say he's\nan all-fired worker and he certainly does seem to have hid some decent\nstuff in him under all his damfoolishness. And you used to be such a\ntremendous friend of the family--I thought perhaps you--of course I know\nhe's a queer lot--I know--\"\n\n\"Yes, I think he is,\" said Eugene. \"No. I haven't anything to offer\nhim.\"\n\n\"I suppose not,\" Kinney returned thoughtfully, as he went out. \"I don't\nknow that I would myself. Well, we'll probably see his name in the\npapers some day if he stays with that job!\"\n\nHowever, the nitroglycerin expert of whom they spoke did not get into\nthe papers as a consequence of being blown up, although his daily life\nwas certainly a continuous exposure to that risk. Destiny has a constant\npassion for the incongruous, and it was George's lot to manipulate\nwholesale quantities of terrific and volatile explosives in safety, and\nto be laid low by an accident so commonplace and inconsequent that it\nwas a comedy. Fate had reserved for him the final insult of riding him\ndown under the wheels of one of those juggernauts at which he had once\nshouted \"Git a hoss!\" Nevertheless, Fate's ironic choice for Georgie's\nundoing was not a big and swift and momentous car, such as Eugene\nmanufactured; it was a specimen of the hustling little type that was\nflooding the country, the cheapest, commonest, hardiest little car ever\nmade.\n\nThe accident took place upon a Sunday morning, on a downtown crossing,\nwith the streets almost empty, and no reason in the world for such a\nthing to happen. He had gone out for his Sunday morning walk, and he was\nthinking of an automobile at the very moment when the little car struck\nhim; he was thinking of a shiny landaulet and a charming figure stepping\ninto it, and of the quick gesture of a white glove toward the chauffeur,\nmotioning him to go on. George heard a shout but did not look up, for he\ncould not imagine anybody's shouting at him, and he was too engrossed\nin the question \"Was it Lucy?\" He could not decide, and his lack of\ndecision in this matter probably superinduced a lack of decision in\nanother, more pressingly vital. At the second and louder shout he did\nlook up; and the car was almost on him; but he could not make up his\nmind if the charming little figure he had seen was Lucy's and he could\nnot make up his mind whether to go backward or forward: these questions\nbecame entangled in his mind. Then, still not being able to decide which\nof two ways to go, he tried to go both--and the little car ran him down.\nIt was not moving very rapidly, but it went all the way over George.\n\nHe was conscious of gigantic violence; of roaring and jolting and\nconcussion; of choking clouds of dust, shot with lightning, about his\nhead; he heard snapping sounds as loud as shots from a small pistol, and\nwas stabbed by excruciating pains in his legs. Then he became aware\nthat the machine was being lifted off of him. People were gathering in a\ncircle round him, gabbling.\n\nHis forehead was bedewed with the sweat of anguish, and he tried to wipe\noff this dampness, but failed. He could not get his arm that far.\n\n\"Nev' mind,\" a policeman said; and George could see above his eyes the\nskirts of the blue coat, covered with dust and sunshine. \"Amb'lance be\nhere in a minute. Nev' mind tryin' to move any. You want 'em to send for\nsome special doctor?\"\n\n\"No.\" George's lips formed the word.\n\n\"Or to take you to some private hospital?\"\n\n\"Tell them to take me,\" he said faintly, \"to the City Hospital.\"\n\n\"A' right.\"\n\nA smallish young man in a duster fidgeted among the crowd, explaining\nand protesting, and a strident voiced girl, his companion, supported his\nargument, declaring to everyone her willingness to offer testimony in\nany court of law that every blessed word he said was the God's truth.\n\n\"It's the fella that hit you,\" the policeman said, looking down on\nGeorge. \"I guess he's right; you must of been thinkin' about somep'm'\nor other. It's wunnerful the damage them little machines can do--you'd\nnever think it--but I guess they ain't much case ag'in this fella that\nwas drivin' it.\"\n\n\"You bet your life they ain't no case on me!\" the young man in the\nduster agreed, with great bitterness. He came and stood at George's\nfeet, addressing him heatedly: \"I'm sorry fer you all right, and I don't\nsay I ain't. I hold nothin' against you, but it wasn't any more my fault\nthan the statehouse! You run into me, much as I run into you, and if you\nget well you ain't goin' to get not one single cent out o' me! This lady\nhere was settin' with me and we both yelled at you. Wasn't goin' a step\nover eight mile an hour! I'm perfectly willing to say I'm sorry for you\nthough, and so's the lady with me. We're both willing to say that much,\nbut that's all, understand!\"\n\nGeorge's drawn eyelids twitched; his misted glance rested fleetingly\nupon the two protesting motorists, and the old imperious spirit within\nhim flickered up in a single word. Lying on his back in the middle of\nthe street, where he was regarded as an increasing public as an unpleasant\ncuriosity, he spoke this word clearly from a mouth filled with dust, and\nfrom lips smeared with blood.\n\nIt was a word which interested the policeman. When the ambulance clanged\naway, he turned to a fellow patrolman who had joined him. \"Funny what\nhe says to the little cuss that done the damage. That's all he did call\nhim--'nothin' else at all--and the cuss had broke both his legs fer him\nand God-knows-what-all!\"\n\n\"I wasn't here then. What was it?\"\n\n\"Riffraff!\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXV\n\n\n\nEugene's feeling about George had not been altered by his talk with\nKinney in the club window, though he was somewhat disturbed. He was not\ndisturbed by Kinney's hint that Fanny Minafer might be left on the hands\nof her friends through her nephew's present dealings with nitroglycerin,\nbut he was surprised that Kinney had \"led up\" with intentional tact to\nthe suggestion that a position might be made for George in the Morgan\nfactory. Eugene did not care to have any suggestions about Georgie\nMinafer made to him. Kinney had represented Georgie as a new Georgie--at\nleast in spots--a Georgie who was proving that decent stuff had been\nhid in him; in fact, a Georgie who was doing rather a handsome thing\nin taking a risky job for the sake of his aunt, poor old silly Fanny\nMinafer! Eugene didn't care what risks Georgie took, or how much decent\nstuff he had in him: nothing that Georgie would ever do in this world or\nthe next could change Eugene Morgan's feeling toward him.\n\nIf Eugene could possibly have brought himself to offer Georgie a\nposition in the automobile business, he knew full well the proud devil\nwouldn't have taken it from him; though Georgie's proud reason would not\nhave been the one attributed to him by Eugene. George would never\nreach the point where he could accept anything material from Eugene and\npreserve the self-respect he had begun to regain.\n\nBut if Eugene had wished, he could easily have taken George out of\nthe nitroglycerin branch of the chemical works. Always interested\nin apparent impossibilities of invention, Eugene had encouraged many\nexperiments in such gropings as those for the discovery of substitutes\nfor gasoline and rubber; and, though his mood had withheld the\ninformation from Kinney, he had recently bought from the elder Akers a\nsubstantial quantity of stock on the condition that the chemical company\nshould establish an experimental laboratory. He intended to buy more;\nAkers was anxious to please him; and a word from Eugene would have\nplaced George almost anywhere in the chemical works. George need never\nhave known it, for Eugene's purchases of stock were always quiet ones:\nthe transaction remained, so far, between him and Akers, and could be\nkept between them.\n\nThe possibility just edged itself into Eugene's mind; that is, he let it\nbecome part of his perceptions long enough for it to prove to him that\nit was actually a possibility. Then he half started with disgust that he\nshould be even idly considering such a thing over his last cigar for\nthe night, in his library. \"No!\" And he threw the cigar into the empty\nfireplace and went to bed.\n\nHis bitterness for himself might have worn away, but never his\nbitterness for Isabel. He took that thought to bed with him--and it was\ntrue that nothing George could do would ever change this bitterness of\nEugene. Only George's mother could have changed it.\n\nAnd as Eugene fell asleep that night, thinking thus bitterly of Georgie,\nGeorgie in the hospital was thinking of Eugene. He had come \"out of\nether\" with no great nausea, and had fallen into a reverie, though now\nand then a white sailboat staggered foolishly into the small ward where\nhe lay. After a time he discovered that this happened only when he tried\nto open his eyes and look about him; so he kept his eyes shut, and his\nthoughts were clearer.\n\nHe thought of Eugene Morgan and of the Major; they seemed to be the\nsame person for awhile, but he managed to disentangle them and even to\nunderstand why he had confused them. Long ago his grandfather had been\nthe most striking figure of success in the town: \"As rich as Major\nAmberson!\" they used to say. Now it was Eugene. \"If I had Eugene\nMorgan's money,\" he would hear the workmen day-dreaming at the chemical\nworks; or, \"If Eugene Morgan had hold of this place you'd see things\nhum!\" And the boarders at the table d'hôte spoke of \"the Morgan Place\"\nas an eighteenth-century Frenchman spoke of Versailles. Like his uncle,\nGeorge had perceived that the \"Morgan Place\" was the new Amberson\nMansion. His reverie went back to the palatial days of the Mansion, in\nhis boyhood, when he would gallop his pony up the driveway and order\nthe darkey stable-men about, while they whooped and obeyed, and his\ngrandfather, observing from a window, would laugh and call out to him,\n\"That's right, Georgie. Make those lazy rascals jump!\" He remembered his\ngay young uncles, and how the town was eager concerning everything about\nthem, and about himself. What a clean, pretty town it had been! And in\nhis reverie be saw like a pageant before him the magnificence of the\nAmbersons--its passing, and the passing of the Ambersons themselves.\nThey had been slowly engulfed without knowing how to prevent it, and\nalmost without knowing what was happening to them. The family lot, in\nthe shabby older quarter, out at the cemetery, held most of them now;\nand the name was swept altogether from the new city. But the new\ngreat people who had taken their places--the Morgans and Akerses and\nSheridans--they would go, too. George saw that. They would pass, as the\nAmbersons had passed, and though some of them might do better than\nthe Major and leave the letters that spelled a name on a hospital or a\nstreet, it would be only a word and it would not stay forever. Nothing\nstays or holds or keeps where there is growth, he somehow perceived\nvaguely but truly. Great Caesar dead and turned to clay stopped no hole\nto keep the wind away. Dead Caesar was nothing but a tiresome bit of\nprint in a book that schoolboys study for awhile and then forget. The\nAmbersons had passed, and the new people would pass, and the new people\nthat came after them, and then the next new ones, and the next--and the\nnext--\n\nHe had begun to murmur, and the man on duty as night nurse for the ward\ncame and bent over him.\n\n\"Did you want something?\"\n\n\"There's nothing in this family business,\" George told him\nconfidentially. \"Even George Washington is only something in a book.\"\n\nEugene read a report of the accident in the next morning's paper. He was\non the train, having just left for New York, on business, and with less\nleisure would probably have overlooked the obscure item:\n\nLEGS BROKEN\n\nG. A. Minafer, an employee of the Akers Chemical Co., was run down by\nan automobile yesterday at the corner of Tennessee and Main and had\nboth legs broken. Minafer was to blame for the accident according to\npatrolman F. A. Kax, who witnessed the affair. The automobile was a\nsmall one driven by Herbert Cottleman of 9173 Noble Avenue who stated\nthat he was making less than 4 miles an hour. Minafer is said to belong\nto a family formerly of considerable prominence in the city. He was\ntaken to the City Hospital where physicians stated later that he was\nsuffering from internal injuries besides the fracture of his legs but\nmight recover.\n\nEugene read the item twice, then tossed the paper upon the opposite\nseat of his compartment, and sat looking out of the window. His feeling\ntoward Georgie was changed not a jot by his human pity for Georgie's\nhuman pain and injury. He thought of Georgie's tall and graceful figure,\nand he shivered, but his bitterness was untouched. He had never blamed\nIsabel for the weakness which had cost them the few years of happiness\nthey might have had together; he had put the blame all on the son, and\nit stayed there.\n\nHe began to think poignantly of Isabel: he had seldom been able to \"see\"\nher more clearly than as he sat looking out of his compartment window,\nafter reading the account of this accident. She might have been just on\nthe other side of the glass, looking in at him--and then he thought of\nher as the pale figure of a woman, seen yet unseen, flying through the\nair, beside the train, over the fields of springtime green and through\nthe woods that were just sprouting out their little leaves. He closed\nhis eyes and saw her as she had been long ago. He saw the brown-eyed,\nbrown-haired, proud, gentle, laughing girl he had known when first he\ncame to town, a boy just out of the State College. He remembered--as he\nhad remembered ten thousand times before--the look she gave him when\nher brother George introduced him to her at a picnic; it was \"like hazel\nstarlight\" he had written her, in a poem, afterward. He remembered\nhis first call at the Amberson Mansion, and what a great personage she\nseemed, at home in that magnificence; and yet so gay and friendly. He\nremembered the first time he had danced with her--and the old waltz song\nbegan to beat in his ears and in his heart. They laughed and sang it\ntogether as they danced to it:\n\n\"Oh, love for a year, a week, a day, But alas for the love that lasts\nalways--\"\n\nMost plainly of all he could see her dancing; and he became articulate\nin the mourning whisper: \"So graceful--oh, so graceful--\"\n\nAll the way to New York it seemed to him that Isabel was near him, and\nhe wrote of her to Lucy from his hotel the next night:\n\nI saw an account of the accident to George Minafer. I'm sorry, though\nthe paper states that it was plainly his own fault. I suppose it may\nhave been as a result of my attention falling upon the item that I\nthought of his mother a great deal on the way here. It seemed to me that\nI had never seen her more distinctly or so constantly, but, as you know,\nthinking of his mother is not very apt to make me admire him! Of course,\nhowever, he has my best wishes for his recovery.\n\nHe posted the letter, and by the morning's mail he received one from\nLucy written a few hours after his departure from home. She enclosed the\nitem he had read on the train.\n\nI thought you might not see it.\n\nI have seen Miss Fanny and she has got him put into a room by himself.\nOh, poor Rides-Down-Everything I have been thinking so constantly of his\nmother and it seemed to me that I have never seen her more distinctly.\nHow lovely she was--and how she loved him!\n\nIf Lucy had not written this letter Eugene might not have done the odd\nthing he did that day. Nothing could have been more natural than that\nboth he and Lucy should have thought intently of Isabel after reading\nthe account of George's accident, but the fact that Lucy's letter had\ncrossed his own made Eugene begin to wonder if a phenomenon of telepathy\nmight not be in question, rather than a chance coincidence. The\nreference to Isabel in the two letters was almost identical: he and\nLucy, it appeared, had been thinking of Isabel at the same time--both\nsaid \"constantly\" thinking of her--and neither had ever \"seen her more\ndistinctly.\" He remembered these phrases in his own letter accurately.\n\nReflection upon the circumstance stirred a queer spot in Eugene's\nbrain--he had one. He was an adventurer; if he had lived in the\nsixteenth century he would have sailed the unknown new seas, but having\nbeen born in the latter part of the nineteenth, when geography was a\nfairly well-settled matter, he had become an explorer in mechanics.\nBut the fact that he was a \"hard-headed business man\" as well as an\nadventurer did not keep him from having a queer spot in his brain,\nbecause hard-headed business men are as susceptible to such spots as\nadventurers are. Some of them are secretly troubled when they do not see\nthe new moon over the lucky shoulder; some of them have strange, secret\nincredulities--they do not believe in geology, for instance; and some of\nthem think they have had supernatural experiences. \"Of course there was\nnothing in it--still it was queer!\" they say.\n\nTwo weeks after Isabel's death, Eugene had come to New York on urgent\nbusiness and found that the delayed arrival of a steamer gave him a\nday with nothing to do. His room at the hotel had become intolerable;\noutdoors was intolerable; everything was intolerable. It seemed to him\nthat he must see Isabel once more, hear her voice once more; that he\nmust find some way to her, or lose his mind. Under this pressure he\nhad gone, with complete scepticism, to a \"trance-medium\" of whom he had\nheard wild accounts from the wife of a business acquaintance. He thought\ndespairingly that at least such an excursion would be \"trying to do\nsomething!\" He remembered the woman's name; found it in the telephone\nbook, and made an appointment.\n\nThe experience had been grotesque, and he came away with an\nencouraging message from his father, who had failed to identify himself\nsatisfactorily, but declared that everything was \"on a higher plane\"\nin his present state of being, and that all life was \"continuous and\nprogressive.\" Mrs. Horner spoke of herself as a \"psychic\"; but otherwise\nshe seemed oddly unpretentious and matter-of-fact; and Eugene had\nno doubt at all of her sincerity. He was sure that she was not an\nintentional fraud, and though he departed in a state of annoyance with\nhimself, he came to the conclusion that if any credulity were played\nupon by Mrs. Horner's exhibitions, it was her own.\n\nNevertheless, his queer spot having been stimulated to action by\nthe coincidence of the letters, he went to Mrs. Horner's after his\ndirectors' meeting today. He used the telephone booth in the directors'\nroom to make the appointment; and he laughed feebly at himself, and\nwondered what the group of men in that mahogany apartment would think if\nthey knew what he was doing. Mrs. Horner had changed her address, but he\nfound the new one, and somebody purporting to be a niece of hers talked\nto him and made an appointment for a \"sitting\" at five o'clock. He was\nprompt, and the niece, a dull-faced fat girl with a magazine under her\narm, admitted him to Mrs. Horner's apartment, which smelt of camphor;\nand showed him into a room with gray painted walls, no rug on the floor\nand no furniture except a table (with nothing on it) and two chairs: one\na leather easy-chair and the other a stiff little brute with a wooden\nseat. There was one window with the shade pulled down to the sill, but\nthe sun was bright outside, and the room had light enough.\n\nMrs. Horner appeared in the doorway, a wan and unenterprising looking\nwoman in brown, with thin hair artificially waved--but not recently--and\nparted in the middle over a bluish forehead. Her eyes were small and\nseemed weak, but she recognized the visitor.\n\n\"Oh, you been here before,\" she said, in a thin voice, not unmusical. \"I\nrecollect you. Quite a time ago, wa'n't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite a long time.\"\n\n\"I recollect because I recollect you was disappointed. Anyway, you was\nkind of cross.\" She laughed faintly.\n\n\"I'm sorry if I seemed so,\" Eugene said. \"Do you happen to have found\nout my name?\"\n\nShe looked surprised and a little reproachful. \"Why, no. I never try\nto find out people's name. Why should I? I don't claim anything for\nthe power; I only know I have it--and some ways it ain't always such a\nblessing, neither, I can tell you!\"\n\nEugene did not press an investigation of her meaning, but said vaguely,\n\"I suppose not. Shall we--\"\n\n\"All right,\" she assented, dropping into the leather chair, with her\nback to the shaded window. \"You better set down, too, I reckon. I hope\nyou'll get something this time so you won't feel cross, but I dunno. I\ncan't never tell what they'll do. Well--\"\n\nShe sighed, closed her eyes, and was silent, while Eugene, seated in\nthe stiff chair across the table from her, watched her profile, thought\nhimself an idiot, and called himself that and other names. And as the\nsilence continued, and the impassive woman in the easy-chair remained\nimpassive, he began to wonder what had led him to be such a fool. It\nbecame clear to him that the similarity of his letter and Lucy's needed\nno explanation involving telepathy, and was not even an extraordinary\ncoincidence. What, then, had brought him back to this absurd place and\ncaused him to be watching this absurd woman taking a nap in a chair?\nIn brief: What the devil did he mean by it? He had not the slightest\ninterest in Mrs. Horner's naps--or in her teeth, which were being\nslightly revealed by the unconscious parting of her lips, as her\nbreathing became heavier. If the vagaries of his own mind had brought\nhim into such a grotesquerie as this, into what did the vagaries of\nother men's minds take them? Confident that he was ordinarily saner than\nmost people, he perceived that since he was capable of doing a thing\nlike this, other men did even more idiotic things, in secret. And he\nhad a fleeting vision of sober-looking bankers and manufacturers and\nlawyers, well-dressed church-going men, sound citizens--and all as queer\nas the deuce inside!\n\nHow long was he going to sit here presiding over this unknown woman's\nslumbers? It struck him that to make the picture complete he ought to be\nshooing flies away from her with a palm-leaf fan.\n\nMrs. Horner's parted lips closed again abruptly, and became compressed;\nher shoulders moved a little, then jerked repeatedly; her small\nchest heaved; she gasped, and the compressed lips relaxed to a\nslight contortion, then began to move, whispering and bringing forth\nindistinguishable mutterings.\n\nSuddenly she spoke in a loud, husky voice:\n\n\"Lopa is here!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Eugene said dryly. \"That's what you said last time. I remember\n'Lopa.' She's your 'control' I think you said.\"\n\n\"I'm Lopa,\" said the husky voice. \"I'm Lopa herself.\"\n\n\"You mean I'm to suppose you're not Mrs. Horner now?\"\n\n\"Never was Mrs. Horner!\" the voice declared, speaking undeniably from\nMrs. Horner's lips--but with such conviction that Eugene, in spite of\neverything, began to feel himself in the presence of a third party,\nwho was none the less an individual, even though she might be another\nedition of the apparently somnambulistic Mrs. Horner. \"Never was Mrs.\nHorner or anybody but just Lopa. Guide.\"\n\n\"You mean you're Mrs. Horner's guide?\" he asked.\n\n\"Your guide now,\" said the voice with emphasis, to which was\nincongruously added a low laugh. \"You came here once before. Lopa\nremembers.\"\n\n\"Yes--so did Mrs. Horner.\"\n\nLopa overlooked his implication, and continued, quickly: \"You build.\nBuild things that go. You came here once and old gentleman on this side,\nhe spoke to you. Same old gentleman here now. He tell Lopa he's your\ngrandfather--no, he says 'father.' He's your father.\"\n\n\"What's his appearance?\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"What does he look like?\"\n\n\"Very fine! White beard, but not long beard. He says someone else wants\nto speak to you. See here. Lady. Not his wife, though. No. Very fine\nlady! Fine lady, fine lady!\"\n\n\"Is it my sister?\" Eugene asked.\n\n\"Sister? No. She is shaking her head. She has pretty brown hair. She is\nfond of you. She is someone who knows you very well but she is not your\nsister. She is very anxious to say something to you--very anxious. Very\nfond of you; very anxious to talk to you. Very glad you came here--oh,\nvery, glad!\"\n\n\"What is her name?\"\n\n\"Name,\" the voice repeated, and seemed to ruminate. \"Name hard to\nget--always very hard for Lopa. Name. She wants to tell me her name to\ntell you. She wants you to understand names are hard to make. She says\nyou must think of something that makes a sound.\" Here the voice seemed\nto put a question to an invisible presence and to receive an answer. \"A\nlittle sound or a big sound? She says it might be a little sound or a\nbig sound. She says a ring--oh, Lopa knows! She means a bell! That's it,\na bell.\"\n\nEugene looked grave. \"Does she mean her name is Belle?\"\n\n\"Not quite. Her name is longer.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" he suggested, \"she means that she was a belle.\"\n\n\"No. She says she thinks you know what she means. She says you must\nthink of a colour. What colour?\" Again Lopa addressed the unknown, but\nthis time seemed to wait for an answer.\n\n\"Perhaps she means the colour of her eyes,\" said Eugene.\n\n\"No. She says her colour is light--it's a light colour and you can see\nthrough it.\"\n\n\"Amber?\" he said, and was startled, for Mrs. Horner, with her eyes still\nclosed, clapped her hands, and the voice cried out in delight:\n\n\"Yes! She says you know who she is from amber. Amber! Amber! That's it!\nShe says you understand what her name is from a bell and from amber. She\nis laughing and waving a lace handkerchief at me because she is pleased.\nShe says I have made you know who it is.\"\n\nThis was the strangest moment of Eugene's life, because, while it\nlasted, he believed that Isabel Amberson, who was dead, had found means\nto speak to him. Though within ten minutes he doubted it, he believed it\nthen.\n\nHis elbows pressed hard upon the table, and, his head between his hands,\nhe leaned forward, staring at the commonplace figure in the easy-chair.\n\"What does she wish to say to me?\"\n\n\"She is happy because you know her. No--she is troubled. Oh--a great\ntrouble! Something she wants to tell you. She wants so much to tell you.\nShe wants Lopa to tell you. This is a great trouble. She says--oh, yes,\nshe wants you to be--to be kind! That's what she says. That's it. To be\nkind.\"\n\n\"Does she--\"\n\n\"She wants you to be kind,\" said the voice. \"She nods when I tell you\nthis. Yes; it must be right. She is a very fine lady. Very pretty.\nShe is so anxious for you to understand. She hopes and hopes you will.\nSomeone else wants to speak to you. This is a man. He says--\"\n\n\"I don't want to speak to any one else,\" said Eugene quickly. \"I want--\"\n\n\"This man who has come says that he is a friend of yours. He says--\"\n\nEugene struck the table with his fist. \"I don't want to speak to any\none else, I tell you!\" he cried passionately. \"If she is there I--\" He\ncaught his breath sharply, checked himself, and sat in amazement. Could\nhis mind so easily accept so stupendous a thing as true? Evidently it\ncould!\n\nMrs. Horner spoke languidly in her own voice: \"Did you get anything\nsatisfactory?\" she asked. \"I certainly hope it wasn't like that other\ntime when you was cross because they couldn't get anything for you.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" he said hastily. \"This was different It was very interesting.\"\n\nHe paid her, went to his hotel, and thence to his train for home. Never\ndid he so seem to move through a world of dream-stuff: for he knew that\nhe was not more credulous than other men, and, if he could believe what\nhe had believed, though he had believed it for no longer than a moment\nor two, what hold had he or any other human being on reality?\n\nHis credulity vanished (or so he thought) with his recollection that it\nwas he, and not the alleged \"Lopa,\" who had suggested the word \"amber.\"\nGoing over the mortifying, plain facts of his experience, he found that\nMrs. Horner, or the subdivision of Mrs. Horner known as \"Lopa,\" had told\nhim to think of a bell and of a colour, and that being furnished with\nthese scientific data, he had leaped to the conclusion that he spoke\nwith Isabel Amberson!\n\nFor a moment he had believed that Isabel was there, believed that she\nwas close to him, entreating him--entreating him \"to be kind.\" But with\nthis recollection a strange agitation came upon him. After all, had\nshe not spoken to him? If his own unknown consciousness had told the\n\"psychic's\" unknown consciousness how to make the picture of the pretty\nbrown-haired, brown-eyed lady, hadn't the picture been a true one? And\nhadn't the true Isabel--oh, indeed her very soul!--called to him out of\nhis own true memory of her?\n\nAnd as the train roared through the darkened evening he looked out\nbeyond his window, and saw her as he had seen her on his journey, a few\ndays ago--an ethereal figure flying beside the train, but now it\nseemed to him that she kept her face toward his window with an infinite\nwistfulness.\n\n\"To be kind!\" If it had been Isabel, was that what she would have said?\nIf she were anywhere, and could come to him through the invisible wall,\nwhat would be the first thing she would say to him?\n\nAh, well enough, and perhaps bitterly enough, he knew the answer to that\nquestion! \"To be kind\"--to Georgie!\n\nA red-cap at the station, when he arrived, leaped for his bag,\nabandoning another which the Pullman porter had handed him. \"Yessuh,\nMist' Morgan. Yessuh. You' car waitin' front the station fer you, Mist'\nMorgan, suh!\"\n\nAnd people in the crowd about the gates turned to stare, as he passed\nthrough, whispering, \"That's Morgan.\"\n\nOutside, the neat chauffeur stood at the door of the touring-car like a\nsoldier in whip-cord.\n\n\"I'll not go home now, Harry,\" said Eugene, when he had got in. \"Drive\nto the City Hospital.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" the man returned. \"Miss Lucy's there. She said she expected\nyou'd come there before you went home.\"\n\n\"She did?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nEugene stared. \"I suppose Mr. Minafer must be pretty bad,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, sir. I understand he's liable to get well, though, sir.\" He moved\nhis lever into high speed, and the car went through the heavy traffic\nlike some fast, faithful beast that knew its way about, and knew its\nmaster's need of haste. Eugene did not speak again until they reached\nthe hospital.\n\nFanny met him in the upper corridor, and took him to an open door.\n\nHe stopped on the threshold, startled; for, from the waxen face on the\npillow, almost it seemed the eyes of Isabel herself were looking at\nhim: never before had the resemblance between mother and son been so\nstrong--and Eugene knew that now he had once seen it thus startlingly,\nhe need divest himself of no bitterness \"to be kind\" to Georgie.\n\nGeorge was startled, too. He lifted a white hand in a queer gesture,\nhalf forbidding, half imploring, and then let his arm fall back upon the\ncoverlet. \"You must have thought my mother wanted you to come,\" he said,\n\"so that I could ask you to--to forgive me.\"\n\nBut Lucy, who sat beside him, lifted ineffable eyes from him to her\nfather, and shook her head. \"No, just to take his hand--gently!\"\n\nShe was radiant.\n\nBut for Eugene another radiance filled the room. He knew that he had\nbeen true at last to his true love, and that through him she had brought\nher boy under shelter again. Her eyes would look wistful no more.\n\nThe End"