“No, I didn’t,” admitted Rita.
“Quite a card,” said Bob.
Jennie had picked up a book. “May Fair,” she read. “Is it good?”
“Yes,” said Rita. “It’s short stories by Michael Arlen; you know, the man who wrote The Green Hat.”
“A detective story?” asked Bob.
“No, Michael Arlen. He was here last spring and we met him. He’s awfully nice. He’s really an Armenian.”
“There’s an Armenian comes to Buchanan two or three times a year,” said Jennie. “But he sells linen.”
Upstairs, two or three hours later, Stu made a brief speech:
“My God! He doesn’t play golf, he doesn’t play tennis, he doesn’t play bridge, he doesn’t swim, fish, drink, or smoke. And I’d arranged these two weeks for a kind of a vacation! Hell’s bells!”
In the guest room Bob said:
“I certainly miss the old radio.”
“Yes,” said Jennie. “We’d be getting the Drake Hotel now.”
“I’d like to see the New York company in Abie’s Irish Rose,” said Jennie at breakfast next morning. “I’d like to compare them with the companies that’s in Chicago.”
“Did you see it in Chicago?” asked Stu.
“Three times,” said Jennie.
“You must be sick of it,” said Stu.
“I couldn’t get sick of it,” replied Jennie, “not if I saw it every night in the year.”
After breakfast Bob tried to read the Herald-Tribune, the World, and the Times, but couldn’t make head or tail of them. He wished he had a copy of the Chi Trib, even if it was two or three days old.
“Do you go to pictures much?” inquired Jennie of her hostess.
“Hardly ever,” said Rita.
“We’re very fond of them,” said Jennie. “You know, we lived in Los Angeles for a long time, and that’s right near Hollywood. So we often saw different stars in person. And some friends of ours knew Harold Lloyd and introduced us to him. You’d never know him without those glasses. He’s really handsome! And democratic!”
“What is he running for?” asked Stu.
“Nothing that I know of,” said Jennie. “Is he running for anything, Bob?”
“I don’t think so,” said Bob.
The morning dragged along and finally it was time for lunch and Stu broke a precedent by having seven highballs with his meal.
“They’ll make you sleepy,” warned Rita.
“What of it?” he said, and there seemed to be no answer.
Sure enough, Stu slept on the porch swing all afternoon while Jennie struggled with the first volume of The Peasants and Rita took Bob for a walk.
“Do you remember Tom Allen?” Bob asked her.
“I don’t believe so,” she answered.
“Oh, you must remember the Allens! They lived next door to the Deans. Well, anyway, Tom had a daughter, Louise, about our age, and she ran away with Doc Marshall and got married. Everybody thought old Tom would shoot Doc on sight, but when they met and Doc asked Tom to forgive him, old Tom said he was the one that ought to be asking forgiveness. So Doc said forgiveness for what, and old Tom said, for not killing Louise when she was a baby.”
Near the end of their walk, Bob asked:
“Don’t you never go to New York?”
“Hardly ever, and especially at this time of year. It’s so hot! But I suppose you and Jennie would like to see something of it. We’ll arrange to drive in before you go home.”
Stu woke up a little after five and took on a fresh cargo of Scotch before dinner.
“You certainly ought to get a radio!” said Bob as the clock struck nine.
At half past, everybody went to bed.
“This will be our third day here,” said Bob, dressing. “We don’t start home till a week from next Thursday.”
“Yes,” said Jennie absently.
“I’d wear my other suit today, but it’s all wrinkled up,” said Bob.
“I’ll ask Rita for an iron and press it out for you. Or maybe we could send it to a tailor.”
“Tailor! There’s no tailor within miles of here, or anything else as far as I can see!”
Stu wasn’t up for breakfast, but joined the party on the porch a little before lunch time. He had started in on a new bottle.
“Bob,” he said, “you ought to fall off the wagon. I’ve got some of the most able-bodied Scotch on Long Island.”
“Thanks,” said his brother-in-law. “I may be tempted before long.”
It was late in the afternoon when Bob said to Rita:
“Do you remember old Tom Allen?”
“I think so,” his sister replied. “Didn’t his daughter run away with some doctor?”
“Yes,” said Bob, “and—”
He was interrupted by Stu’s voice, calling Rita from upstairs.
“Listen,” said Stu when she had answered his summons, “A telegram is coming for me tonight, saying that my grandfather is sick up in Bennington, Vermont, or some place, and for me to come at once. And he’s going to stay sick for at least ten days, so sick that I can’t leave him.”
“No, sir!” said Rita firmly. “You don’t do that to me!”
“Well, then, how about this? Suppose it’s one of our dearest friends that’s sick and we’ve both got to go. Do you think they’d go home? You see, we could pack up some baggage and run in to New York and stay over night if necessary, and come back here after they’re gone.”
“If they ever found out, I couldn’t forgive myself.”
“They won’t. You let me plan it and we’ll spring it after dinner. I wouldn’t be so desperate if I hadn’t just got so I could break an eighty-five and if I don’t keep after it I’ll be back in the nineties.”
But after dinner, while Rita and Stu were sparring for an opening, Jennie said:
“Folks, I hope you won’t think we are crazy, but Bob is, almost. He’s worried to death about his garden. He read in the paper this morning that there’s
