"And besides," she went on, immediately contradicting herself, "I've read your articles and books and I feel as if I knew you better than you knew yourself."
Unlikely, I figured. But this was important to her, so I nodded. "Maybe you do—in some ways."
She had shown a certain economy of speech—owing possibly to the fact that I had given her little opportunity to show anything else. But her biography was fairly terse:
"I was born in Boston—and the family moved here when I was a baby. My dad graduated from Princeton in 1921. He's a very intelligent, strong-willed, wonderful guy. My mother's a chronic invalid—of her own making. I have one sister—older—and no brothers. I'm very fond of my sister—but I was always jealous of her when I was young. Dad tried to make her a substitute for a son—took her everywhere, taught her sports and games—and I wanted to be the one. She's married and lives in Chicago. I went to school in Westchester—Rosehall—and came out here. At a mass début. Dad's in real estate. After I came out, I fiddled around awhile—Junior League, and Red Cross, and Bar Harbor in the summers—and then I met Rol."
She took a breath that quavered like a musical saw. "He's handsome. He has manners—buckets and barrels of manners. And money." She looked angrily at her rings. "I tried to make something out of him. To put ambition in him. I got him to work for dad—and he quit. He wanted to go to California because he likes flowers. My God, how he likes flowers! We had greenhouses full. He thought he could become a botanist—or hybridize something—and he dawdled away his time with paintbrushes and pollen. I persuaded him to go into real estate out there—and he made a lot more money—but he gave it up. He began collecting a library of old books on botany—and writing a history of botany—and I was bottled up in botany. It got so he would hardly even dress up. Or shave. Overalls all day. I'd want to go places and see people and do things—and we'd be home, instead, with some French professor, maybe, for dinner, complete with beard, accent, ribboned glasses, and knee-patting under the table. Half the time, these professors and Rol—for Roland—talked Latin. I flunked it, three straight semesters, myself. Well—I took to going out alone—and he didn't care. I even tried to make him jealous—and he positively seemed to approve. He told me I needed outside interests and that he was a dull fellow for me! I—" She bit her lip.
"—love the guy."
"Not now. I did. What finally happened was—"
"Should I get that beer ready?"
She shook her head. For a while she was silent. Then she touched the book. "I heard—I knew—I suppose I shouldn't even have been surprised—let alone driven out of my mind—but there's so much that's nice about him. Used to be, anyhow. Too nice—and that should have prepared me—"