Bernamer sent the car through Trenton and cursed Margot astoundingly. “Ten or twelve thousand dollars! The little skunk! Cure Mark of listening to her. Say, he still wanting you to marry her, bud?”
“Afraid he is, dad.”
“Sure. Next best he could do to marryin’ her himself. Funny boy. Likes her ’cause she’s pretty. Black hair.—This English woman’s blackheaded, ain’t she?... Well, you sic’ some feller onto Margot and get her off Mark’s hands. If you fell in love with her again, your mamma’d puff up and bust.”
“Again?”
Bernamer gave him a blue stare and winked, wrinkling his nose. His weathered face creased into a snort. “Sure, you were losin’ sleep over her ’fore she got back from England.”
“Not now, daddy.” Gurdy wondered about the absolute death of his passion. His father, who so seldom saw him, knew it was done. Mark saw him daily, talked to him of Margot urgently and saw nothing.
“Well,” said Bernamer, “Mark’s awful fond of you. And you ain’t bad, reelly. Don’t you get married until you catch one you can stand for steady diet. Oh, your mamma’s gone on a vegetable diet and lost four pounds in two weeks. Ed’s got a boil on his neck—bad, too, poor pup. Jim done an algebra problem right yesterday and made a touchdown Saturday. He’s got his head swelled a mile.”
The man’s tolerant dealing with his family impressed Gurdy. Here was a controlled and level affection, not Mark’s worship. It was a healthier thing. He watched his father’s amiable scorn while Mrs. Bernamer and the whole household fussed variously over young Edward’s inflamed neck after supper. The boil was central in the talk of the red living room. Grandfather Walling tried to think of some ancient remedy and fell asleep pondering. The two bigger lads hovered and chuckled over the eruption. The sisters neglected some swains who came calling. Mrs. Bernamer sat mending the grey breeches of the military uniform Edward wasn’t wearing. The boil maintained itself over gossip of the village, the Military Academy and female questions about the Jannan dance. At ten Bernamer said, “Go to bed, all of you. Got to talk business to Gurdy.” The family kissed Gurdy and departed. Grandfather Walling’s snore roamed tenderly down into the stillness. Bernamer got out the chessboard and uncorked a bottle of vicious pear cider. They smoked and played the endless game. At twelve the telephone bell shore off his father’s sentences. Gurdy clapped a palm on the jangling at his elbow and picked up the instrument. Olive Ilden spoke in her most artificial, clearest voice.
“We’re in New York, dear. The doctor telephoned about eight and we came up directly. I think you’d best come, Gurdy.”
“Mr. Carlson?”