“Mother,” the girl interrupted, “listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from Germany? You know—those German poems. What’d I do with it? I’ve been racking my—”
“You have it.”
“Are you sure?” said the girl.
“Certainly. That is, I have it. It’s in Freddy’s room. You left it here and I didn’t have room for it in the—Why? Does he want it?”
“No. Only, he asked me about it, when we were driving down. He wanted to know if I’d read it.”
“It was in German!”
“Yes, dear. That doesn’t make any difference,” said the girl, crossing her legs. “He said that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I should’ve bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please.”
“Awful. Awful. It’s sad, actually, is what it is. Your father said last night—”
“Just a second, Mother,” the girl said. She went over to the window seat for her cigarettes, lit one, and returned to her seat on the bed. “Mother?” she said, exhaling smoke.
“Muriel. Now, listen to me.”