. . Worked on the Manhattan District Project at Oak Ridge, Tenn., during the war. . . . His wife, Elizabeth Wylie, is active in club and society affairs throughout Fairfield County and is well known as a charming and popular hostess. . . .”
“Dad, is your speech going to be on the radio?” Jeremy asked.
Stanton looked up quickly. Not, he noted, “Is your speech going to be good?” but “Is it going to be on the radio?” Why? He hated the fact that of late Jeremy was beginning to irritate him, and mostly because of questions like that. Why?
“No, thank Heaven, it won’t be,” he said. “I wouldn’t want my friends listening in. I may make a fool of myself.”
“No you won’t, Dad. I’ll bet you’ll wow them.”
“Well, I’m glad you have so much confidence in me. Come to think of it, I did win a debate once, when I was at Ely.”
“When will the article about you be in Life, Dad?”
“I’m not sure,” Stanton said. “When they called me the other day, the girl told me they wanted it ready to go to press Tuesday. They sent the photographer yesterday, but here it is Friday, and I haven’t even met her yet. I don’t see how they can do it so fast.”
“She’s meeting you on the Century this afternoon, isn’t she?” Betsy asked. “What’s her name?”
“Mm . . . Mainwaring, I believe,” he said. “Nancy Mainwaring. Now,” he added severely to Jeremy, “please don’t go telling people in school about this.”
“Why not, Dad?”
“Because—well, for one thing, it may not appear at all. It hasn’t even been written yet, and I’m hanged if I know what they can find to say. Furthermore, I don’t care much for the idea of being written up in a magazine like that. I’m not used to all this fuss.”
“Oh, that’s silly, Stan,” Betsy said. “You can’t expect Jeremy not to be excited about his famous father. Why, I’ve told all my friends about the Life article.”
“Well, I wish you hadn’t.”
“Oh, Stan, they’re so jealous! It does my heart good, after listening all these years to them yapping about the big deals their husbands put over, to be able to say that you are going to hit Life.”
Stanton frowned. “Betsy, I don’t like to be thought about in those terms. Or talked about.”
“Don’t you want us to be proud of you, Stan?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say, Are you proud of me, or proud of the publicity I’m getting? But instead he said, “I rather hoped you were a little proud of me already.”
“Oh, Stan, don’t act like a wounded child! You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But—oh, let’s not argue about it. I want my breakfast.” He started to apply himself to his grapefruit, then looked up at her. “I’m sorry, sweet. Didn’t mean to bark. It’s just that everything has happened so suddenly.”
“I know, Stan. It’s all right.” She reached over and ever so lightly squeezed his hand. In return, he took hers and held it in a firm grip. He saw her again only as the slim blonde sprite with bouffant skirts whirling in the Ritz ballroom with the crowd circled around her, saw her—in short—as a child.
“I wish you were coming with me, Betsy,” he said gently.
Jeremy, having disposed of his Popsies, observed his face and said, “Hubba, hubba!”
“That’ll be enough out of you, Jerry,” Stanton said. “I’ve told you before I don’t want you to use that expression, least of all in——”
“Oh, Jerry didn’t mean anything, Stan,” Betsy said. She detached her hand. “It’s just the way they all talk.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jeremy said quickly. “I forgot.”
“Well, don’t let it happen again, hear? Being sorry isn’t any excuse, and neither is ‘I forgot.’ ”
“Yes, Dad.”
“How about it, Betsy? Won’t you come along?” Stanton continued. “I can change my space on the Century and get a bedroom. Or——” Or you could even share the roomette with me, two of us squeezed into the same berth, the way we used to travel. But he checked himself; Betsy wouldn’t consider anything like that.
“I’d just be in your way, Stanton,” Betsy said.
“No, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t be in the way at all. Why would you?”
“You’re going to be involved for hours with the Life girl, being interviewed,” Betsy said. “Then you’ll be dashing around Chicago all tomorrow, pillar to post. Then you’ll want to have some time with your mother. You’re going to see her, aren’t you?”
“She’s meeting me for breakfast at the Ambassador. But what difference does that make? And what difference does my schedule make? You’ve got plenty of friends you could spend the day with.”
“There isn’t a soul in Chicago I care about seeing,” said Betsy. “Besides, Stan, it’s out of the question. I can’t just pick up and leave like that. I’ve got a dozen things I simply have to do tomorrow.”
“Such as what?” Stanton inquired.
“Why, there’s the Community Chest meeting for one thing, and the social-events committee of the country club is getting together to go over the plans for the Halloween party. Don’t forget,” she added pettishly, “you were the one who wanted me to get into all these activities.”
“Was I? I certainly don’t remember advising you to get on the social-events committee. It takes up more of your time than all the other things together. Oh, well,” he sighed, “I guess there isn’t much point. I did hope——”
The appearance of Supreme Love with the creamed chipped beef put an end to the discussion. It was Stanton’s favorite breakfast dish, but for several minutes he left it untouched. He sat back as far as the wrought-iron chair would allow and studied his wife. The Lincoln lines crept back across his face. He was remembering the old, gay, careless days when Betsy would have gone with him—anywhere, any time—like a shot, brushing aside objections and obstacles with a shrug of her shoulders or the toss of her head. It was very puzzling. He knew that the mood of two people in love is a fragile thing, ephemeral as a rainbow, having no more substance than a cup of air, as fleeting as December sunshine on a hillside, yet when people loved and lived together why shouldn’t the mood become stronger and more binding instead of more illusory?
“Don’t let your beef get cold, Stan! I practically had to bribe the manager of Gristede’s to get it for you. What’s the matter?”
“What?”
“You were looking so peculiar.”
“I was thinking.”
“Thinking? Thinking
