'Wish Paul would marry?' Mrs. Pyne sighed. 'We've J not been very successful matchmakers.' j
'Look, I'm happy,' said Paul, passing drinks.
Rosemary leaned forward and said deliberately, 'But Mrs. Pyne, wouldn't Jeanie be terribly jealous of a stepmother? Isn't a teen-age daughter bound to be?'
I
'Subconsciously?' said Virginia, her clean-cut little mouth forming the word with distaste.
Mr. Gibson felt very queer. He kept his face a blank. He had a conviction that Lee Coffey, Theo Marsh, all of them, could see right through his skin.
'Here comes Ethel, hey?' said Lee. 'Oh boy, this Ethel—';
'Jeanie,' said Mrs. Pyne gently, 'is truly fond of Paul.'
'Honestly!' burst Jeanie. 'How can she think that about me? She doesn't even know me. And I know the facts of life! I've been trying to marry Dad off for four years now. Pretty consciously,' she flared.
'Ethel though,' said the bus driver comfortably, 'she knows better. Hey, Rosemary?' He winked.
'I don't think she knows much about teen-agers,' said Jeanie. 'We're a pretty bright bunch.'
'Quite so,' said Mrs. Boatright. 'One should make a practice of listening to young people. Go on, my dear.'
'We've even heard of Oedipus,' Jeanie rushed on— flashing Mrs. Boatright a look of fierce response. 'We're not stupid. I ask you, what's going to happen to Dad when I go off? And I'm going, some day.'
'And I,' said Mrs. Pyne, nodding calmly.
'If he hasn't got somebody, he's going to be just lost,' said Jeanie. 'He's an awful comfort-loving man.'
Paul said, 'These women . . . they nag me . . .' He lifted his glass. His eyes were suddenly inscrutable.
Mr. Gibson sipped his own drink, in automatic imitation. It was cold and tasteless, and then suddenly delicious.
'Well, of course,' said Rosemary wickedly, 'Ethel has her own ideas about crippled old ladies, too, Mrs. Pyne.'
Paul looked very angry.
Mrs. Pyne lifted her hand, as if to forestall his anger and she smiled. 'Poor Ethel,' she said. 'Well, she must live as best she can and think what will comfort her, I suppose. Never married. No children. Such a limited experience of life.'
Mr. Gibson murmured his astonishment. 'Ethel? Limited?' He had never thought of this.
'I don't think she has many connections with real people,' said Mrs. Pyne. 'That is to say, individuals. Or how could she judge them in such lumps?'
'She doesn't look—can't see,' said Theo Mzirsh.
'They're a wild and wonderful lot,' said the bus driver, patting Virginia's hand, 'if you take them one by one. And that's the way I like them.' Virginia blushed and shushed him.
'Still,' said Mr. Gibson, clearing his throat, 'Ethel has had quite a successful business career. She has faced up to facts all her life.' (His tongue felt loose. He was almost enjoying this party.) 'Whereas I,' he went on, 'am the one who has had the limited existence. A little poetry. Some academic backwaters. Even in the war, I . . .'
'How can you read poetry and not notice the universe?' said Lee indignantly. 'You know who is limited? Fella who reads nothing but the newspaper, watches nothing but his own p's and q's, plus TV in the evening, works for nothing but money, buys nothing with the money but a car or a steak, does what he thinks the neighbors do and don't notice the universe. Actually,' he sank back and slipped his fingers on his glass, 'I never met anybody like that, myself.'
''You read about him in the newspaper,' said Theo Marsh.
'What war, Mr. Gibson?' asked Virginia.
'Oh . . . both wars. I was too old for Korea . . .'
'Oh yes,' said Rosemary with charming sarcasm. 'He has had so little experience. Only two wars, you see. Then there was the depression, the years when he took care of his mother, when he paid for Ethel's education. And that was weak and drifting of him, wasn't it? The years he has taught . . . who counts those? Ethel doesn't. I don't see why not,' she added in a low voice. 'Or why, when a man has led a useful life for fifty-five years and is kind and generous and good . . . why Ethel seems to assume he is so naive and so . . .'
'Innocent?' supplied Mr. Gibson, his eyes crinkling. (He was having a lovely time.)
'Backwaters?' snapped Theo Marsh. 'What d'ya mean? What does she think life is made of? Your name in the metropolitan newspapers? Cafe society?'
'No, no. Facts,' said Mr. Gibson. 'Mean-ness. People who run knives in your back. Egos and burglars . . .'
'Please.' The painter stopped him with a loud groaning. 'Why is everything loathsome and unpleasant called a fact? Thought fact was another name for truth. And evil truths may be . . . but truth does not equal evil. I'll tell you,
you can't paint a decent picture without the truth in it.'
'Or write a decent poem, either,' said the bus driver, 'or teach a decent lesson. Or earn an honest penny. You know, I think he is innocent.' He looked around belligerently.
'I think he's a dear,' said Virginia warmly.
