“Yes, her father’s Santi, the caterer.”
“Oh, Bertie!”
“I only ask you to see her. She’s altogether lovely, and she’s had one of those marvelous nouveau riche educations. You know the sort of thing—lessons in everything from the most expensive teachers. Sings, plays, paints, speaks all known languages, studied deportment and household management and First Aid. She’s been for the last two years in a convent in Paris, and they’ve made one of those regular foreign young girls out of her. You know, modest and gentle, always on the alert to be respectful and polite to old people.... The King of the Pastry-Cooks is rather keen on society. He gives monster parties—you never saw anything like them; they’re awfully pathetic. He gets paid entertainers, singers and dancers and—oh Lord!—wizards! He loves wizards. We sit in rows in the ball-room, while the wizard holds a show on the stage he’s had put up. Then he serves a supper! Oh! Never in your life have you dreamed of such suppers!... And when you’re going home, you each get a present. Not a favour, Mammy, but a genuine present—silver cigarette case, and so on.... Of course, he doesn’t know half the people who come. He prowls around, a poor, fat, gloomy devil, and no one bothers with him. But he sees a crowd in his house, and that satisfies him.”
“Dead, long ago. He has two daughters and two sons. They’re all very nice and respectful.”
“But do you think it’s quite a suitable match?”
“Couldn’t be more so! My Giulia is the most well-bred thing that ever drew breath. You’d feel quite ashamed before her. I believe she took lessons in how to behave in all European courts, and how to entertain royalty.”
“But, my dear boy, how do you propose to live? On the—the pastry-cook father?”
“No; I’ll get on, Mammy. I always do. I’ll either go to Princeton next autumn, or go into Father’s business, whichever you advise.”
“No, Bertie, you’re the one to decide. What do you want to do? What do you want to make of your life?”