Scotty grinned. “Okay! So, okay! I got it bad.”
“What will your family say?” the thin brother asked in a somber tone. “Imagine the scene. You take la Yates to Manhattan, ride up in a marble elevator to your familial penthouse, whip out your golden latchkey, open the door and say, ‘Mother, here’s the girl I’m going to marry! This po’ cracker chile.’ Your mother can see the babe is a looker who would bring a blush of envy to the proud features — all’ the proud features — of Kim Novak.
And has topaz eyes, besides. But your mother isn’t fooled by mere externals. Not like you, Smythe! Raising a jewel-encrusted lorgnette, she frigidly asks the girl, ‘Where are your Junior League papers? Even your first papers?’”
“Where does Eleanor’s family come from?” a brother asked. “Anybody know?”
“Olean,” said Scotty.
“I thought olean was something you spread on bread.”
Scotty smirked. “Look, you jealous weevils! Olean is a town in New York State. It has history, paved streets, electric lights — and Eleanor Yates’ birthplace!”
“We are worrying ourselves unduly,” said a plump, shrewd-eyed brother who had apparently been reading a magazine. “I know, out of what we lawyers call our own knowledge, that she necked with Avalanche Billings last week. Kissed him, anyhow. I also know she gets orchids from a guy in the Miami Junior Chamber of Commerce. He raises ’em in his yard — which shows a good business head. And there are eight thousand other guys!”
The main object of the ribbing, evidently accustomed to it, again discussed his vine.
“They graft things on trees down here,” Scotty murmured. “Maybe a graft could be managed.