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.
So Edgar sank more deeply into himself. He recalled his grandmother's stories about life and living back near the end of the century, when folks knew how to be pleasant and kind.
Even at his job—he was a technician in an electronic lab—Edgar couldn't stop longing for that era when existence had been more gentle, simple and leisurely. His social life virtually ceased.