“The parlor’s closed up for the summer. Step in here. Have a drink of something cool?”
“Just vichy, thank you.” His uncle moved toward the decanter beside the paper-littered chair where he had evidently sat.
David stood still, holding his cool glass and aware, though he looked beyond, of vagrant feathery bubbles in the water. Mr. Deane leaned over the decanter.
In the center of David’s mind was the scurry of papers—Sunday papers—on the floor, on the table, on the chairs. Chairs protruded flamboyant scrollery from under the drab gray of their summer dress, like little old coquettes. Massive pictures heaved on the walls, and these were covered also and betrayed glimpses of finery of gilded frames. The family photographs were bare. David found himself sharply looking at a stentorian lady and two pretty girls with down-turned mouths. He drew his body toward his questioning uncle.
Mr. Deane found questions hard. Three times he asked if David had enjoyed his vacation: three times if he was ready for work. Then, with a sudden sympathy, it came to him that such solicitude was perhaps wearying.
“Better sit down,” he said. Gently. At last, “Well—I guess you’re tired. You can go to bed if you wish to. All ready for you, my boy, you see.”
There was a certain pride in his remark. David caught this. He did not understand. He was in a mood where what he did not understand he could not like.
He found his two legs not quite enough to stand on. He was uncomfortable, shifting, now he had gotten up. He followed his uncle to the fourth and topmost floor of the empty echoing house. In each narrow hall as they passed through, a gas-jet trembled in a red rugose globe.
“Here we are, my boy. Bathroom below.” Mr. Deane smiled. “I’ll have you waked in the morning. Sleep tight.”
David heard him stamp heavily down to his easy-chair, his chaos of papers, his whiskey. As he had turned, he seemed to wink at David. Was he trying to be kind? A door slammed outer silence. The room was alive....