"I draw myself up," I answered, "with dignity. As a modern gentleman, I am the complete sciolist. The most-smattered man you'll meet in your lifetime. There is almost nothing that I'm not slightly versed in and pretty poor at. Why—I even took archery lessons, once. Got second prize in Palm Springs—"
"Good heavens!" she said.
"I gave him some lessons in quantum theory, myself," Paul continued. "Rotten student. Wants to know the final formulation and what it means—and detests to brush up his calculus first. He can do magic tricks, too—earned his high school pin money that way. He used to spin ropes—jump through 'em. When I was a very small kid, I looked forward to seeing him. Like a one-man circus. Then I caught on—at about four years old. Uncle Phil was in kindergarten in about every subject there was. Never got any farther. Just took different primary courses every year."
"In a minute," I said, "I'll leave you guys to your libel and go back to my serial. Somebody taught me how to write fiction, along there someplace—"
Paul grinned and said, "Touché—a little."
I felt better than I had all weekend. Paul surely would calm down with Yvonne. And she wasn't going to loiter with Gwen that evening.
It left me with nothing to worry about except a no longer very sore spot in my throat—and with no emotion to grapple—except a feeling of being lonelier than God.
I went back to my room and turned the lights on bright and sat down and looked at the roses Dave had sent.
They were my flowers-for-the-living and, being alive, they should be appreciated.