“And another thing—another thing—But where are those cigarettes? I know I had half a package of Gold Flakes left, and some Camels,” he muttered, as he searched.
It was she who thought of telephoning to the office; she who felt that she knew how to use servants, at no matter what time of night, while he would always be Americanishly shy of them.
She sat on the edge of the couch, she smoothed her skirt, she bent her head with irritating graciousness to receive a light from him when the cigarettes had come, and graciously, most irritatingly, she said:
“Sam, I hate to have to point it out again, but it really doesn’t get you very far in a discussion to lose your temper and use big, strong, he-man words like ‘damn’ and ‘the devil.’ They aren’t so awfully novel and startling to me! And as usual, you’re merely missing the point. I’m neither ‘panning’ you, as you so elegantly put it, nor am I trying to mother you. I’m always willing to listen to your opinions on golf and how to invest my money. I merely expect you to admit that there may be a few things in which the poor ignorant female may know a little bit more than you do! Oh, you’re like all the other American men! You speak no known language. You don’t know Rodin from Mozart. You have no idea whether France or England controls Syria. You—you, the motor expert!—can never remember whether a lady should be on your right or your left in a car. You’re bored equally by Bach and Antheil. You’re bored by going with me to shop for the most divine Russian embroidery. You can’t fence with a pretty woman at dinner. And—But those are just symptoms! Separately, they don’t matter. The thing is that you haven’t the mistiest notion of what European civilization is, basically—of how the tradition of leisure, honor, gallantry, inherent cultivation, differs from American materialism. And you don’t want to learn. You never could be European—”
“Fran! Stop sneering!”
“I am not sneer—”
“Stop it! Dear! I don’t pretend to have any of these virtues. I guess it’s perfectly true: I never could become European. But why should I? I’m American, and glad of it. And you know I never try to prevent your being as European as you want to. But don’t take out your soreness at Lockert on me. Please!”
His encircling arms said more, and he nestled her head on his shoulder while she sobbed:
“I know. I’m sorry. But oh—”
She sat up, spoke resolutely.
“I’m terribly ashamed about this Lockert business. Shamed right down through me. I can’t stand it! Sam, I want to leave England at once. I can’t stand staying in this country with that man, thinking he’s here laughing at me. Or else I will be asking you to go out and shoot him, and the law here is so prejudiced! I want to leave for France. Now!”
“But golly, Fran, I like this country! I’m getting to know London. I like it here. France’ll be so foreign.”
“Precisely! I want it to be! I want to start all over. I won’t make a fool of myself again. Oh, Sam, darling, let’s run away, like two schoolchildren, hand in hand! And think! The joy of seeing blue siphons and brioches and kiosks and red sashes and red-plush wall-seats and fat lady cashiers! And hearing ‘B’jour, M’sieu et Madame,’ the way they say it when you’re leaving a shop—like a little bell! Let’s go!”
“Well, I did intend to see some aeroplane factories here. Fact I had a date—”
They went to Paris in four days.
The Channel steamer seemed to him like a greyhound—small, slim, power evident in its squat thick funnel. The delight of seafaring which he had found on the Atlantic came to him again in the narrow gangways ’tween decks, suggesting speed in their sharp curve toward the bow. When he had established Fran in a chair on the boat deck, amid piles of snobbish blond luggage, he slipped down to the bar.
There is about a ship’s bar, any bar of any ship, however small, a cheerfulness unknown elsewhere in life’s dark and Methodist vale. It has the snug security of an English inn, with a suggestion of adventure as the waves flicker past the portholes, as you speculate about the passengers—men coming from China and Brazil and Saskatchewan, men going to Italy and Liberia and Siam. As he clumped up to join Fran, Sam forgot, in waxing anticipation of the Continent, his regret for England, and he kept that anticipation even while he listened on deck to a proper cross-Channel conversation among a ripe Wiltshire vicar, his aunt, and his aunt’s dear friend, Mrs. Illingworth-Dobbs:
“Oh yes, we shall stop in Florence most of the time.”
“Shall you stop at the Stella Rossa ancora una volta?”
“No, I really think we shall stop at Mrs. Brown-Bloater’s pension. You know we’ve always stopped at the Stella Rossa, but it’s really too outrageous. Last year they began to charge extra for tea!”
“Extra? For tea?”
“Yes. And it used to be quite nice there! The guests were people one could know. But now it’s filled with Jews and Americans and unmarried couples and even Germans!”
“Dreadful! But Florence is so lovely.”
“Charming!”
“So artistic!”
“Yes, so artistic. And Sir William is taking a villa there for the season.”
“I say, that will be jolly for you.”
“Si, si! Sarà una cosa veramente—uh—really charming. Sir William is so fond of the artistic. It will be quite like home, having him there. And I have heard definitely from Mrs. Brown-Bloater that she is not charging extra for tea!”
Sam forgot the prospect of a Continent full of Mrs. Illingworth-Dobbses; he even forgot, in the zest of the steamer’s speed, Fran’s fretfulness that the boat was going up and down a good deal, for which she seemed to feel that he was to blame. The bow hit the waves like a
