The Nostalgia Gene

By ROY HUTCHINS
Illustrated by COUGHLIN
If you cannot get the good old days out of your mind, there is only one person to blame—Edgar's grandmother!
Folks who knew Edgar Evans said he was a strange young man. Certainly he was the darling of the old ladies and the despair of the young. The sternest fathers positively beamed when Edgar called for their daughters, but fellows his own age declared in the authoritative tones of youth that Edgar was a square.
Handsome enough he was. The real reason for all the fuss was Edgar's manners. The trouble was that he had them.
For Edgar had been orphaned at four by an Oklahoma tornado and raised by his Hoosier grandmother, a dear old lady whose hand had once been kissed by a passing Barrymore. The result was Edgar's manners. He realized, of course, that one didn't kiss a lady's hand these days, but such was Edgar's gracious way that women always got the impression he was about to.
One parent, in something of a trance after encountering Edgar, summed up the reaction.
That kid, he told his wife dazedly, akshully called me 'sir.' Them other punks come aroun' afta Milly, they call me 'Mac.' Too bad that there Edgar was born fifty years too late.
Before very long, Edgar came to the same conclusion.
He knew a good many young men, but none he could call friend. The bop talk which fascinated them seemed to him a repulsive travesty upon English, just as their favorite music sounded like the braying of asses in agony.
Many girls were willing enough when Edgar asked for a first date, but an amazing number of them developed ill health when he suggested a second evening of classical records or good conversation.
The girls themselves could not be blamed if they mistook his courtly approach for a new dreamy line. Alas, the very hearts which fluttered at his old-world chivalry grew icy when no pass was made. A girl wants to know her charms are appreciated.