Lavinia.' The model stood up in her weird garb. The rest of them were streaming to the door.
'Wait for us,' said the painter.
'Are you coming?' said the bus driver curiously.
'Certainly, rm coming. If you think I'm not going to be on hand to see how this works out! I'm not a man who misses much. Snap it up, Lavinia. We dump her at the junction. Her father runs the gas station.'
Mr. Gibson had time to marvel at this, as they streaked for the car.
Lee, Virginia, and Paul were in the front, as before. In the back, Mrs. Boatright's broad beam occupied the center solidly. On her left, Theo Marsh held Lavinia on his lap, and on the right, Mr. Gibson held his wife, Rosemary. He felt tumbled and breathless, but fallen into a warm and lovely place, in the lee of Mrs. Boatright's good and warm and solid flesh, with Rosemary's physical being pressing upon his thighs and his arm holding her.
The car flew down the hill. It stopped. Everybody swayed. Paul was out and at the telephone. Lavinia kicked the long blue skirt about with her bare feet and got out clumsily. Mr. Gibson heard her say, 'Hi, Paw.'
'I suggest you get some pants on,' a man's voice said without passion, 'and take over the pumps, Lavinia. Mother's been announcing dinner the last five minutes and I'm famished.'
Mr. Gibson heard Paul shouting that the line was busy. That something terrible could have happened.
Theo Marsh bellowed back, 'Look here, you at the telephone. Let Lavinia get on the telephone. She's absolutely reliable. I guarantee that.' He was leaning over the side waving his long skinny arms.
'No nerves, Lavinia,' said the unseen father complacently.. 'What's up?'
'Let her keep calling,' bawled the artist. 'While we get there.'
'I'll tell them,' said Lavinia. 'Don't touch any olive oil and youse guys is on the way.'
'No nerves, no diction,' said the sad voice of the gas station man, with a shudder, unseen by but nevertheless divined by Mr. Gibson.
'Yes, do it.' Paul was hoarse. 'I can't stand here.' He beat the telephone number out three times. (Lavinia got it the first time.) Then Paul climbed back into the car.
'All right, Lee,' said Virginia to the bus driver.
'Off we go,' howled the painter in joy. 'So long, Lavinia. Good girl,' he told them. 'She understands one hell of a lot about art.'
'She does?' said Rosemary breathlessly. The car lurched and Mr. Gibson hung on to her.
Rosemary leaned to see around Mrs. Boatright. 'Of course, as an artist, Mr. Marsh,' she said in suspiciously sweet tones, 'you live way out here to retreat from reality.'
'The hell I retreat from reality,' said the artist angrily. 'Who told you that?' Mrs. Boatright contrived to shrink her bosom back against her backbone, somewhat, as they talked across her. ' I see more reality in half a minute than any one of you can see in a day,' raved the artist. 'I don't even drive a car. I . . .'
'Because of your eyesight?' piped up Mr. Gibson promptly.
'Right,' said Theo grumpily. 'Cxood for you, Gibson, if it was Gibson speaking.' The artist retreated into silence. Mr. Gibson felt as if he had just won a thrust.
'Hey?' said the bus driver over his shoulder. 'What's this?'
'He sees too much,' explained Mr. Gibson. 'An ear, for instance. He'd be in the ditch.'
'I bet he would.' Rosemary actually chuckled in her old Rosemaryish way. Mr. Gibson was exhilarated. He pressed his cheek secretly against her sleeve, not wishing to laugh. After all, he was still a criminal. But with mirth rumbling inside of him, just the same.
'Pretty keen, this Gibson,' said the bus driver to the blonde. 'Mighty lively corpse he makes, hey?'
Paul said tensely, 'Drive the car.'
Virginia said soothingly, 'He is. He will.'
'Don't worry, Paul,' said Rosemary, rather gaily. 'Jeanie is a sensible girl.'
'I know that.' Paul turned and swept them with a harassed look. He put both palms swiftly over his hair, not quite holding his head, but smoothing it on, as he turned to yearn ahead once more.
'I've got the rest of you sorted out, but who is Paul?' asked the painter, reducing his volume. ''He wasn't on the bus.'
'He's a neighbor of theirs,' said Mrs. Boatright. 'This
is his car. We ought to have called the police, you know.'
The painter said under his breath to the back seat, 'i doubt very much it was his daughter who took the green paper bag. She was distinguished. Whereas he . . .' The painter made an unspellable noise. It meant Big Deal!
'Paul,' said Rosemary rather drowsily, 'is as good as he is beautiful.'
'And perishing dullI' said Marsh. 'Am I right?'.
Rosemary's arm came around Mr. Gibson's neck, to hang on, of course, for they were speeding. 'Well, he is conventional,' she said softly. 'He's nice, but . » . everybody can't be interesting, like you.' She leaned from Mr. Gibson's breast to peer at the painter.
'Oh ho, rm interesting all right,' said Theo Marsh.
Mr. Gibson felt furiously jealous. This conceited ass was seventy if he was a day.
