shook hands and he helped her move two rockers together.
“How’s George?”
“He’s fine, Roxanne. Seems to like school.”
“Of course it was the only thing to do, to send him.”
“Of course—”
“You miss him horribly, Harry?”
“Yes—I do miss him. He’s a funny boy—”
He talked a lot about George. Roxanne was interested. Harry must bring him out on his next vacation. She had only seen him once in her life—a child in dirty rompers.
She left him with the newspaper while she prepared dinner—she had four chops tonight and some late vegetables from her own garden. She put it all on and then called him, and sitting down together they continued their talk about George.
“If I had a child—” she would say.
Afterward, Harry having given her what slender advice he could about investments, they walked through the garden, pausing here and there to recognize what had once been a cement bench or where the tennis court had lain.…
“Do you remember—”
Then they were off on a flood of reminiscences: the day they had taken all the snapshots and Jeff had been photographed astride the calf; and the sketch Harry had made of Jeff and Roxanne, lying sprawled in the grass, their heads almost touching. There was to have been a covered lattice connecting the barn-studio with the house, so that Jeff could get there on wet days—the lattice had been started, but nothing remained except a broken triangular piece that still adhered to the house and resembled a battered chicken coop.
“And those mint juleps!”
“And Jeff’s notebook! Do you remember how we’d laugh, Harry, when we’d get it out of his pocket and read aloud a page of material. And how frantic he used to get?”
“Wild! He was such a kid about his writing.”
They were both silent a moment, and then Harry said:
“We were to have a place out here, too. Do you remember? We were to buy the adjoining twenty acres. And the parties we were going to have!”
Again there was a pause, broken this time by a low question from Roxanne.
“Do you ever hear of her, Harry?”
“Why—yes,” he admitted placidly. “She’s in Seattle. She’s married again to a man named Horton, a sort of lumber king. He’s a great deal older than she is, I believe.”
“And she’s behaving?”
“Yes—that is, I’ve heard so. She has everything, you see. Nothing much to do except dress up for this fellow at dinner-time.”
“I see.”
Without effort he changed the subject.
“Are you going to keep the house?”
“I think so,” she said, nodding. “I’ve lived here so long, Harry, it’d seem terrible to move. I thought of trained nursing, but of course that’d mean leaving. I’ve about decided to be a boarding-house lady.”
“Live in one?”
“No. Keep one. Is there such an anomaly as a boarding-house lady? Anyway I’d have a negress and keep about eight people in the summer and two or three, if I can get them, in the winter. Of course I’ll have to have the house repainted and gone over inside.”
Harry considered.
“Roxanne, why—naturally you know best what you can do, but it does seem a shock, Roxanne. You came here as a bride.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “that’s why I don’t mind remaining here as a boarding-house lady.”
“I remember a certain batch of biscuits.”
“Oh, those biscuits,” she cried. “Still, from all I heard about the way you devoured them, they couldn’t have been so bad. I was so low that day, yet somehow I laughed when the nurse told me about those biscuits.”
“I noticed that the twelve nail-holes are still in the library wall where Jeff drove them.”
“Yes.”
It was getting very dark now, a crispness settled in the air; a little gust of wind sent down a last spray of leaves. Roxanne shivered slightly.
“We’d better go in.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s late. I’ve got to be leaving. I go East tomorrow.”
“Must you?”
They lingered for a moment just below the stoop, watching a moon that seemed full of snow float out of the distance where the lake lay. Summer was gone and now Indian summer. The grass was cold and there was no mist and no dew. After he left she would go in and light the gas and close the shatters, and he would go down the path and on to the village. To these two life had come quickly and gone, leaving not bitterness, but pity; not disillusion, but only pain. There was already enough moonlight when they shook hands for each to see the gathered kindness in the other’s eyes.
MR. ICKY
THE QUINTESSENCE OF QUAINTNESS IN ONE ACT
The Scene is the Exterior of a Cottage in West Issacshire on a desperately Arcadian afternoon in August. MR. ICKY, quaintly dressed in the costume of an Elizabethan peasant, is pottering and doddering among the pots and dods. He is an old man, well past the prime of life, no longer young, From the fact that there is a burr in his speech and that he has absent-mindedly put on his coat wrongside out, we surmise that he is either above or below the ordinary superficialities of life.
Near him on the grass lies PETER, a little boy. PETER, of course, has his chin on his palm like the pictures of the young Sir Walter Raleigh. He has a complete set of features, including serious, sombre, even funereal, gray eyes—and radiates that alluring air of never having eaten food. This air can best be radiated during the afterglow of a beef dinner. Be is looking at MR. ICKY, fascinated.
Silence.… The song of birds.
* * * *
PETER: Often at night I sit at my window and regard the stars. Sometimes I think they’re my stars.… (Gravely) I think I shall be a star some day.…
ME. ICKY: (Whimsically) Yes, yes…yes.…
PETER: I know them all: Venus, Mars, Neptune, Gloria Swanson.
MR. ICKY: I don’t take no stock in astronomy.… I’ve been thinking o’ Lunnon, laddie. And calling to mind my daughter, who has gone for to be a typewriter.… (He sighs.)
PETER: I liked Ulsa, Mr. Icky; she was so plump, so round, so buxom.
MR.
