XVII

Willis always liked to think that Sylvia’s and his honeymoon had been a very happy one, and certainly before it was completed they had learned a lot about each other in little ways. He had learned, for instance, that Sylvia liked to smoke a cigarette in bed before she went to sleep, a habit which always alarmed him, and that she left shoes and slippers on odd parts of the floor, which one had to be careful not to step on. In fact Willis had almost dislocated his toe on a sharp heel of one of Sylvia’s mules the third night of their marriage, and Sylvia had told him that it was his fault because he had insisted on walking around barefoot. Sylvia on her side had learned that he did setting-up exercises for ten minutes every morning and never left the top off his toothpaste tube or his shaving cream. Things like this meant more than you thought, and a honeymoon was surely a period of learning both to give and forgive. He had never known, for instance, that Sylvia wore pajamas instead of nightgowns.

He had heard that the most important recipe for a happy honeymoon was complete physical comfort, and he was glad he had taken this point seriously in spite of what Sylvia had said about economy. He had the good sense not to worry about costs, since, as he told Sylvia, you only had a honeymoon once. He had not told Sylvia where they were going because he had wanted it to be a surprise, and as a matter of fact it had been, very definitely. All he would tell Sylvia was that he had reservations at a place in the Adirondack Mountains and that they would have to hurry through New Hampshire and Vermont in order to reach there on time.

The name of the place was Chieftain Manor, which Willis had once heard Mr. Beakney say was one of the finest rest and recreation hotels that he had ever seen, and Mr. Beakney certainly had been right. Willis had never been to a hotel like Chieftain Manor, and he often said sadly to Sylvia in later years that he wished they might go there now—which was unhappily impossible, because Chieftain Manor closed its doors shortly after Pearl Harbor, never to open them again. It lay back in the past now, as something unique to remember, something never to be spoiled by revisiting later when one’s tastes were better formed by wider travel.

Chieftain Manor was gone, and heaven only knew what had finally happened to the immense shingled building or the eighteen-hole golf course, the indoor and outdoor swimming pools, the bungalows and service quarters, the mountain trails and boathouses. Had the hotel burned down, or was it the property now of some real-estate development with ranch-type houses and imitation log cabins, or had the forest that surrounded it rolled back over it again? Willis did not know, nor did he want to know. He preferred to think of it as it had been—as beautiful as a dream of wish fulfillment.

He could seem to see it in his memory just as he had when he drove up over its half mile of driveway with Sylvia beside him. He could remember the autumn sunlight, the gold of turning poplars against the deep green of fir trees. Perhaps the past had given his memories a romantic tinge, but his initial impression persisted that Chieftain Manor contained everything that anyone could need in order to achieve happiness. It certainly had tried to contain everything. Once you passed through its front portals that overlooked the putting green and croquet lawn, there were passages branching off in all directions to shops selling linen and lingerie and jewelry, sport shops, book shops, barber shops, and hairdressers, cigar stands, newsstands, conservatories, and a broker’s office. As Willis once said facetiously to Sylvia after they had the ground plan of the main building more or less committed to memory, it must have been that no one coming to Chieftain Manor had decided what to wear until he got there. He was surprised that Sylvia had not appeared amused. Occasionally there were times when Sylvia had not been quite herself at the Chieftain. October was like July, what with the club bar, the golf professional, the card room, the billiard room, the ballroom and the Club Evangeline with its New York atmosphere, and the Turkish baths, and the indoor swimming pool so cozily heated.

The sun was setting and the red glow from the sky was reflected in the still waters of the lake. There was a suspicion of autumn chill that was only enough to make one glad that a day’s motoring had ended at just the proper moment. The Manor was really larger than Willis had believed was possible, considering how far they were from anywhere.

“Oh, Willis,” he heard Sylvia say, “is this it?”

“Yes, honey,” he told her. “It’s quite a layout, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t a hotel,” she said, “it’s a fantasy.”

“A what?” he asked her.

“Oh, never mind, dear,” she said. “Isn’t it going to be terribly expensive?”

It was strange how apt Sylvia was to miss the point of certain things. For instance she never could understand when it was worthwhile to spend money. Of course the main purpose of Chieftain Manor—or The Old Chief, as Willis came to call it affectionately—was to be expensive. It was a symbolic prize for industry and endeavor, a happy resting place only for those who had made good. Somehow Sylvia never seemed to see that if you worked hard for what you got, it was a pleasure to show that you had money. It never hurt you at all, for example, to be able to say that you enjoyed April at Hot Springs or that you had found that the service at The Breakers at Palm Beach had improved from what you had known of it last. Of course everyone had his own intimate attitude toward money, and he always realized that Sylvia’s was different from his, but he did wish she could understand that he had earned his right to be at The Old Chief.

“What’s the matter, honey?” he asked her.

“Oh, Willis,” she said. “It’s just so—Oh, never mind. I only mean that it isn’t very cozy.”

“But it isn’t meant to be,” he said. “People who come here don’t want anything cozy.” And then he could not help but laugh. “I’ll make you love it, honey,” he said. “We’ll do something new every minute we’re here. This is going to be a real honeymoon right from now on in.”

There was no time to say anything more because a bell-boy in a horizon-blue monkey jacket and white trousers was already beside the car.

“Hello, son,” Willis said. “Take out everything, will you? And put the car in the garage.”

It was new to him, but then Willis had traveled enough at Beakney-Graham to know his way around hotels. Thus The Old Chief only awed Willis when he and Sylvia first crossed the lobby, with its artistically grouped clusters of chairs occupied by the guests in from golf or riding who were whiling away an aimless hour before it should be time to dress for dinner. By the time he was facing the room clerk he was completely sure of himself.

“Mr. and Mrs. Willis Wayde,” he said, “Rahway, New Jersey. Here’s a confirmation of my reservation.”

The only wrong thing that he had done, of course, was to tell the clerk that he had a confirmation for his reservation, since this indicated an insecurity that he always avoided afterwards. Actually this made very little difference, because, as Willis found out later, the whole staff had been given careful lectures by Mr. Murcheson, the manager, on the arts of hospitality. A guest, as Mr. Murcheson said—and he always made it a point to contact all guests personally—was a member of The Old Chief Club once he had signed the register.

Upon leaving the desk Willis was already able to glance in a calm and friendly way about the lobby. The cashmere sweaters of the younger women reminded him that given the proper things Sylvia could look as well as any of them, and Sylvia was beginning to wear clothes beautifully, as well or better even than Bess Harcourt.

They had the elevator all to themselves, with the two boys and the baggage.

“You have suite C-16, sir,” the head boy said.

Willis saw Sylvia glance at him with alarm, and he smiled at her proudly.

“That’s right, son,” he said, and it was right. The beautifully carpeted hall was almost perfect and so were the sitting room and bedroom, tastefully furnished with chintz and antique maple reproductions.

“Thank you, boys,” Willis said, and he handed each of them a dollar, and smiled again at Sylvia.

“Look,” he said to her. “Flowers for you with a card from the manager. Well, how do you like it, Mrs. Wayde?”

If he had meant the suite to be a surprise, it had been, but Sylvia’s uneasy manner told him that her mind was again on money.

“Willis,” she said, “we don’t need a sitting room, do we? Really, you’re spending money like a drunken sailor.”

Somehow the phrase seemed inappropriate and he resented being put in this category.

“Listen, honey,” he said. “Let’s just sit down and get this straight,” and he put his arm around her.

“Darling,” Sylvia said, “I don’t mean I’m trying to quarrel. I know this is lovely and I love you for thinking of it, but then there’s all the money we have to spend for the house and everything in New Jersey.”

“Sylvia,” he said, “do you remember that green dress?”

It was lovely to see the color rise in her cheeks.

“Of course I do,” she answered, “but now we’re so much more responsible.”

“That’s right, honey,” Willis said, “but I still feel just the same way I did about that dress. I guess I always will.”

“You’re awfully sweet, darling,” she said.

She said it as though she had made a new discovery, and the warmth of her voice made him happy.

“It is what makes the game worthwhile, honey,” he said. “I mean giving you things, having a home.” All at once he began to laugh, because finally he had the whole idea straight. “Maybe people like me are like sailors, and do you know why drunken sailors spend their money?”

“No,” she answered, “unless because they’re drunk.”

“No, honey,” he said, “they do it because they know that money’s meant to spend when they get ashore.”

“And you mean you’re ashore now?” she asked.

“That’s right,” he said, “but there’s more to it than that. This place means more to me than it does to you, because I’ve been at sea.”

Then her arms were around his neck and her head was on his shoulder.

“I’m awfully glad you told me, dear,” she said. “I won’t worry any more. We’ll have a lovely time.”

Sylvia always was a grand girl, once you made her understand, and of course they had a wonderful time. Sylvia’s evening dress was not bad-looking at all, and he was wearing his new tuxedo. It was pleasant to see people glancing at them as they walked across the lobby, with looks more wistful than envious; and Willis could understand their attitudes better now that he was old enough himself to look at a nice young couple and remember when he and Sylvia were like that—in love and with years ahead of them. Sylvia was dark and tall and there was character in her face and intelligence that meant a lot more than insipid beauty. Then he was not so bad-looking himself either in those days, as he knew from old photographs.

“Shall we have a cocktail before dinner?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Sylvia said. “Darling, I keep forgetting how handsome you look, and then I start wondering how I ever found you.”

A waiter pulled back a chair for her at a table in the bar, and the happy released chatter of drinkers around them splashed over them like a wave on a coral beach.

“Will you have a dry Martini, dear?” he asked. “Make it two dry Martinis, son, and ask the barman just to squeeze a lemon peel over the surface, not drop it in.”

It occurred to Willis after he made the speech that the waiter was somewhat older than he and that it had been inappropriate to call him son, and he made a mental note to use the word less frequently.

“I don’t care what it costs now. This is fun,” Sylvia said.

“And when we finish these drinks it will be more fun,” Willis told her. “Honey, I want to tell you something.”

“What?” she asked.

“You said an awfully sweet thing about me as we came in here.” He had to raise his voice to make her hear him across the table. “I mean about your forgetting how I look and then remembering. Let’s keep on forgetting. Let’s never get used to each other.”

“Anyway, let’s not get too used to each other,” Sylvia said.

“All right,” he said, “and, honey, you’re more than wonderful, you’re more than beautiful.”

“We ought to stay here permanently,” Sylvia said, “if you keep on saying things like that.”

Sometimes he echoed that wish in his memory, that they could have stayed on in that bar forever with no more than two Martinis apiece.

“You see,” he said, and he wished he did not have to speak so loudly, “you’re more than beautiful because you have—you have—I wish I could say it in French.”

“Don’t,” Sylvia told him. “You’ll spoil it if you do.”

“I know, honey,” he told her, “and some day you’re going to take me to Paris and teach me how to speak it right. You’re more than beautiful. You’re distinguée.”

“Why, Willis,” she said, “you pronounced that rather nicely.”

“Excuse my French,” Willis said, and he laughed. “I won’t say it again, honey, but I will say you’re more distinguished than any other girl in this hotel. Waiter, two more of the same, please.”

“Do you think we ought to have two?” Sylvia asked.

Willis laughed again. “A bird can’t fly on one wing,” he said.

They looked at each other and then Sylvia smiled.

“Darling,” she said, “do you think I’m as distinguée as Bess Harcourt?”

He was startled when Sylvia brought up Bess Harcourt, because it was neither the time nor the place for it, and also her name evoked a picture and a comparison. He could not help but wonder what Bess Harcourt would be like if she were suddenly to enter that spacious barroom. Would she be handsomer than Sylvia?

“Willis,” Sylvia said, “did you hear my question?”

He had forgotten momentarily where he was, and now he was back holding the stem of the glass of his second Martini.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “beg pardon, honey. There isn’t any comparison. You’re both different in your ways, but then no two people can be identical, can they?”

“You know, I saw her once,” Sylvia said. “I don’t believe I ever told you. I may have been shy about it.”

“I don’t see that it’s anything to be shy about,” Willis said. “Where did you happen to see her?”

“Oh, at a Boston dance,” Sylvia answered. “She was pointed out to me.”

“Well, frankly,” Willis said, and as he was speaking he could imagine Bess Harcourt at that vanished dance, with her tawny hair, greenish-blue eyes, and quick smile, “you’ve got a better figure than Bess. You’re better-looking than Bess. You’ve got more brains and a better disposition.” And then he laughed. “Of course I may be prejudiced.”

Sylvia laughed too. “Just you keep on being prejudiced,” she said.

The fine thing was that Willis had meant everything he said. He was having a very good time. He pulled out his cigarette case and snapped it open.

“This silver case is going to turn to gold,” he said, “when things get a little better. Have a cigarette, honey?”

“Yes,” she said, “but don’t you think we ought to go in to dinner?”

Willis lighted a match for her and he made a note as he did so that he must save some of the Chieftain Manor matches to take back to Rahway.

“Nobody else seems to be in a hurry,” he said. “Let’s get up an appetite. Remember, it’s all American Plan.”

He looked critically around the barroom. Already he felt like a habitué of Chieftain Manor.

“Wait a minute, honey,” he said, “don’t interrupt me. I think there’s someone over there I know. Yes, it is. I’m sure of it.”

“Who?” Sylvia asked.

“That’s Mr. Percival L. Nagel,” Willis said, “sitting over there with that rather heavy blond lady. Yes, I’m sure it’s Mr. Nagel.”

“Who’s Mr. Nagel?” Sylvia asked.

“Why, honey,” Willis said—she might know how to speak French but she did not know everything—“P. L. Nagel is the president of the Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting Company.”

It was always something to remember, the time he saw P. L. Nagel sitting across the room at Chieftain Manor. It all went to show that you never lost money in the end by staying at a fashionable hotel, and it also went to show that it paid to cultivate a knack for names and faces. The only time that Willis had seen P. L. Nagel previously was during an unforgettable episode back in Mr. Harcourt’s library, but that had been a long time ago, in terms of both years and personal development.

Mr. Nagel did not look quite so trim or quite so ruddy, but then seven years had passed since Mr. Nagel had called on Mr. Henry Harcourt in June, 1929. The hardness of his face had partially melted into his jowls. In fact he had put on weight all over, although his double-breasted dinner coat concealed a good deal of his portliness. His hair, which had been receding from his florid forehead, had thinned until his shiny scalp showed through what was left of it, and what was left was benignly white. It was undoubtedly P. L. Nagel.

“Well,” Willis heard Sylvia saying, “and suppose he is the president of the Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting Company?”

Sylvia’s voice was a needless interruption.

“They make conveyor belts in the Middle West, honey, together with a long line of industrial rubber products,” Willis told her, and he told her very kindly. “They’re the biggest belting company in America, honey. He tried to buy the Harcourt Mill once. That’s how I remember him.”

“Is that his wife with him?”

It pained Willis that Sylvia sounded disdainful. Of course the lady with him was Mr. Nagel’s wife, because, obviously, she could not possibly have been anything else.

It was not difficult for Willis to see that Mrs. Nagel’s blond hair was not entirely natural. In spite of facials and beauty creams, her eyes were old, and so were her hands. She was doing very well, but she was hardly the person that one would invite for a surreptitious week end at Chieftain Manor.

“Well, she looks very common,” Sylvia said.

It was hard to see how Sylvia had reached that conclusion. It seemed to Willis that Mrs. Nagel looked very well, considering—handsome, blond, in a fine evening dress, with some excellent pieces of jewelry.

“I don’t suppose he remembers me at all,” Willis said, “but I was right there when he offered to buy the Harcourt Mill. He offered five million dollars.”

This sum made no impression on Sylvia.

“I don’t see why it is,” she said, “that people like that always seem to be the only ones who ever offer to buy something for five million dollars.”

Willis only half heard her because the sight of the Nagels had absorbed all of his attention. It was simply one of those times when he could not think of two things at once.

“Nice-looking people,” Sylvia said, “never seem to want to buy things for five million dollars.”

Willis felt a slight spasm of annoyance.

“Now, honey,” he said, “in business it doesn’t matter how anybody looks, if he has the money to put on the table.”

“But, Willis,” Sylvia said, “you’re always careful about how you’re going to look.”

Willis laughed.

“Honey,” he said, “maybe I won’t care so much if I ever make a million. I think I ought to speak to Mr. Nagel. Don’t you think so?”

“Why?” Sylvia asked.

“It would be a wasted opportunity if I didn’t, dear,” Willis said. It was strange how often he had to spell out things for Sylvia in those days.

He pushed back his chair tentatively, and just then Sylvia spoke with a startling sort of urgency.

“Oh, Willis,” she said, “please don’t.”

He could still remember that Sylvia’s voice had sounded half frightened.

“Don’t what, honey?” he asked.

“Don’t contact him, or whatever you call it,” Sylvia said. “We’re having such a good time by ourselves.” Her words moved more rapidly, more eagerly. “Willis, he’ll spoil everything.”

Willis patted her hand, gently, reassuringly.

“Don’t worry, honey,” he said, and suddenly he felt curious. “What is it that upsets you so about my just speaking to him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sylvia said. “I just don’t feel he’s good for you.”

“Who?” Willis said. “Old P. L. Nagel not good for me?”

“Darling”—there was a sudden catch in her voice—“I don’t want you to get to be like him. That’s all I mean.”

“Who?” Willis said. “Me? Like P. L. Nagel?”

There really had been a moment when he hesitated, since after all it was their honeymoon. There was even a moment when he knew what she meant about getting to be like P. L. Nagel, and then he stood up.

“I wouldn’t do this, honey,” he said, “if it wasn’t important in a business way. I’ll be back in just a minute, honey.”

As he walked carefully around the tables toward Mr. P. L. Nagel, he had some vague idea of what Sylvia meant. For a second Willis seemed to be leaving something that he and Sylvia were building together which had all sorts of half-realized possibilities. It was, of course, ridiculous. In the end it was more of a twinge of conscience than an idea. At any rate the whole thing was over in an instant. Willis squared his shoulders slightly. He was near the table now. Mr. Nagel was staring at an empty old-fashioned cocktail glass, but he looked up quickly as one does, finally, when someone silently tries to attract one’s attention.

“Good evening, Mr. Nagel,” Willis said. “I don’t imagine you remember me but I couldn’t resist the impulse.”

Mr. Nagel’s timing was slower than it had been years ago. Willis could see him bringing his mind and eyes into focus and for a moment Willis was afraid that Mr. Nagel resented the intrusion. Willis had not learned then that everybody, no matter what superficial annoyance they might show, liked to be recognized and noticed.

“Now just a minute, son,” Mr. Nagel said. “Don’t tell me who you are. I want to guess. I never forget a name and a face, do I, Myrtle?” He looked archly at Mrs. Nagel.

“It depends on how many old-fashioneds you’ve had, P.L.,” Mrs. Nagel said.

Mr. Nagel shrugged his shoulders.

“Now, Myrt,” he said, “I bet you two hundred dollars I guess him.”

“How many guesses?” Mrs. Nagel asked.

“Just two,” Mr. Nagel said, and sat up straight. “All right. First question. Were you ever in the belting business, son?”

“Yes, sir,” Willis said. “I was and in fact …”

“Just answer,” Mrs. Nagel said. “Don’t tell him any more.”

“All right, Myrtle,” Mr. Nagel said. “I don’t need any more questions. This is Jim Budd who used to be in the Chicago office. I remember you perfectly now, Jim. Sit down and have a quick one with us, and bring your best girl over.”

“Oh, P.L.,” Mrs. Nagel said, and she gave a loud whinnying laugh that made people turn around and look at her. “Two hundred dollars. Look at him. He isn’t Jim Budd.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mr. Nagel said. “Of course he’s Jim Budd,” but then Willis’s own expression must have told him he was wrong. It was hard to keep from laughing. Mr. Nagel took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“I’m afraid you’ve got me wrong, sir,” Willis said. “I used to be with the Harcourts—not that there is any reason why you should remember. You had other things to think about at the time.”

Mr. Nagel always was very quick on the uptake.

“That’s it,” he said. “You were the kid who sat with me in that den. Myrtle, sweetie, this is the son of my very close personal friend Alf Wayde. His first name is Harris.”

“The name is Willis, sir,” Willis said.

Mrs. Nagel gave another laugh. “That’s another one on you,” she said. “Right on the button, Pops.”

Mr. Nagel shook his finger at her.

“Harris is pretty close,” he said, “but I admit the drinks are on me, sweetie. Who’s the girl you’re with, Willis? She’s a snappy little babe, if I may say so.”

“She’s my wife,” Willis said. “We happen to be here on our honeymoon.”

Mrs. Nagel gave another of her laughs.

“There you go again, Pops,” she said. “I told you they were married.”

Mr. Nagel raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat.

“You see,” he said, “when Mrs. Nagel and I come to a place like this we always have a little game, guessing who’s married and who isn’t. Mrs. Nagel’s usually right. In fact, personally, she thought we were married a whole year before we were.”

When P. L. Nagel laughed you could not help but laugh with him. Mrs. Nagel gave her husband a cold glance and straightened her gold-mesh bag on the table.

“I am sure Mr. Wayde doesn’t understand what you’re talking about, P.L.,” she said.

“Now, sweetie,” P.L. answered. “It’s just a private joke of Mrs. Nagel’s and mine. You understand that, don’t you, Harris?”

“Oh, naturally, Mr. Nagel,” Willis said. “I just came over to say hello. It’s been a pleasure meeting you again, and Mrs. Nagel too, and now if you’ll pardon me, I must rejoin Mrs. Wayde.”

Mr. Nagel shook his finger at Mrs. Nagel.

“Now you see you’ve embarrassed him, don’t you, Myrtle?” he said. “We’re not going to pardon you, Harris, until you bring Mrs. Wayde over here and make this whole thing legitimate.”

“Stop calling him Harris,” Mrs. Nagel said. “It would be lovely if you joined us for a cocktail, Mr. Wayde.”

“Say, Myrt,” Mr. Nagel said, “let’s get off this formal basis. We’re all first names here.”

Willis could not help but feel a pleasant glow and a warm spot in his heart that was almost like loyalty.

“I know Sylvia would love to meet you, P.L.,” he said. One always had to be careful in the early handling of a first name, but on this occasion he could see that it was exactly what P.L. wanted. “I’ll bring Sylvia right over.”

“Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said, “do we really have to go over there and sit with them?”

It was not fair of Sylvia, because even if it was their honeymoon the Nagels were a very important contact.

“Now, honey,” he said firmly but very cheerfully, “it won’t hurt. It will be over in a minute.”

He could see that there had never been an opportunity for Sylvia in her whole life to meet people like the Nagels, but after all it did not hurt her a bit. In fact after a few minutes he was really proud of Sylvia, and what was more she seemed to know instinctively how to handle types like old P.L. When Mr. Nagel kept holding her hand long after it was necessary, it was a little difficult to know what to do, but Sylvia handled it all herself.

“I’d like it back when you’re through with it, Mr. Nagel,” Sylvia said. “I need it so I can have a cocktail.”

It was pretty good for Sylvia and it started everything on exactly the right note. Mr. Nagel said it was a very funny line and Mrs. Nagel asked right away if Sylvia and Willis would not join them at dinner—that is if they didn’t mind sitting awhile with some stuffy old people.

“Don’t forget, Myrt,” Mr. Nagel said, “it’s their honeymoon. But you do have to eat sometime, don’t you, kids?”

Willis had a momentary worry that Sylvia might not take the remark in the spirit in which it was intended, but he was entirely wrong.

“There’s nothing like a honeymoon,” Mrs. Nagel said to Sylvia, “and the first one is always the best one. That’s what I always tell P.L., but let’s you and I have a little talk and don’t mind the men.”

“Well,” P.L. said, “now the girls have got together, how’s Harcourt’s?”

It was very easy to tell Mr. Nagel the few lines of personal history. Old P.L. knew all about Harcourt’s and Beakney-Graham and Rahway Belt, and he was honestly interested.

“Anyway,” P.L. said, “you’ve got the Planeroid patents.” It was a relief to be talking business again.

“That’s right,” Willis said, “but we’re doing some more things to the process.”

“Will you boys stop talking business,” Mrs. Nagel said, “and let us please go in to dinner.”

You could say what you wanted about old P.L. but he did have an intellectual enthusiasm when it came to production and merchandising, and they must have both been a little starved for shop talk. Willis could not remember what they had for dinner or much of what Sylvia or Mrs. Nagel had to say but he could recall all the details of his talk with P.L. Willis could never blame himself for being very proud of that evening. While they drank coffee in the large lounge outside the ballroom, Willis in his thoughts could stand away from himself and enjoy that scene, with its background of ballroom music, as an artist might admire a canvas that was turning out better than he had ever hoped. Furthermore the feeling of well-being that suffused him seemed to Willis to have spread to Sylvia and Mrs. Nagel.

Then everyone talked very happily about antique furniture. It seemed that Mr. and Mrs. Nagel had recently built a new home in the Chicago suburb of Lake Forest, designed on Georgian colonial lines. For ordinary parties you could have a steak fry or some catch-as-catch-can thing like that out by the swimming pool, but there were times when you wanted to do it in a small sophisticated way for some banker or some highly educated corporation lawyer. What P.L. really wanted was atmosphere, and that was why they were getting rid of reproductions and buying genuine antiques. They had a patina all their own.

It was pleasant to hear Sylvia agree with Mrs. Nagel. Old furniture did give atmosphere, and she wished that she could afford to buy some, but of course starting out as she and Willis were made this nearly impossible.

“Say,” P. L. Nagel said, “don’t let Myrtle give you any fancy ideas now, Sylvia, honey. Speaking of antiques, do you remember old Harcourt’s office building? Those were real antiques.”

Willis was glad that the subject had got back to the Harcourt Mill, since he could give a few interesting facts about the commercial value of antiques. Finally Mr. Nagel raised his hand and yawned delicately behind it.

“You know, this pine-scented air seems to hit me over the head,” he said, “and I have got to hit the hay. How about some golf tomorrow, Willis?”

“Gosh, P.L.,” Willis said, “I’m intending to do a little serious work on my golf while I’m here, but I’m afraid I’m not in your league, P.L.”

“Oh, just duffer golf,” Mr. Nagel said. “I’m not what I used to be. I’ll call you at eleven, son. Come on, Myrtle. Good night, Sylvia, precious.”

Willis was instantly on his feet, and he stood for a moment gazing after the Nagels before he sat down again beside Sylvia.

“Now, honey,” he said, “do you see what I mean about its paying to stop at some place like Chieftain Manor?”

Instead of answering directly, Sylvia put her hand on his arm.

“Now that they’ve gone, let’s go in and dance,” she said. It was nice to see how quickly Sylvia was getting into the spirit of the place.

It was agreeable to observe that they were one of the few young couples in the ballroom, for most of the other guests, who sat watching the dancers like village elders, were in stages of late middle age. There were not many people in Willis’s age group who could afford the time off for play or the tariff of Chieftain Manor. It was sad to think of this, since The Old Chief had so many facilities that youth appreciated more than age, but at the same time it was stimulating to realize that he was able to make the grade while he was still young.

When they finally reached their sitting room, neither of them, unlike P. L. Nagel, felt like sleep.

“I think I’ll read for a while,” Sylvia said. “Would you mind getting me The Oxford Book of Verse out of my suitcase, dear?”

It was like a preview of an abundance of happy years, to be reading quietly there in The Old Chief with Sylvia. Yet after a space of silence he became aware of a common fallacy in this conventional picture. No husband and wife ever seemed able to sit in the same room and read.

“Willis?” Sylvia said.

“Yes, dear,” he answered.

“How is it that someone as stupid and vulgar as Mr. Nagel can be so successful in business? I don’t see that he has any brains at all, only a few slow reflexes.”

“You don’t mean,” Willis said, “that old P.L. pinched you or anything?”

He was relieved when Sylvia laughed.

“Why, the thought never crossed my mind,” she said, “but I wish he had. It might have made things easier.”

Sometimes Sylvia said the most extraordinary things, considering she came from Craigie Street.

“Now, honey,” Willis told her, “you’ve got to—er—kind of expect that sort of thing when you get around with old men over sixty, especially if they’re topflight executives.”

Sylvia laughed again and something in her mirth began to make him nervous.

“Suppose he starts,” she said. “How much should I let him pinch me?”

“Well, now, honey,” Willis said, “that’s kind of a curious question. I don’t see any use in crossing a bridge until you come to it, and maybe you never will.”

“You mean I’m not attractive enough?” Sylvia asked.

“Now, honey,” Willis said, “I didn’t mean that. I was only sort of thinking out loud on general terms.”

“Darling,” Sylvia said, “what will I do if Mr. Nagel does do anything?”

“Well, honey,” Willis told her, and he tried to put his thoughts into order, “I’ve always thought that girls knew how to handle such situations. I don’t say it’s pleasant the way certain men behave, but then it’s sort of an accepted human fact. You know, honey, executives around sixty are all under a heavy strain of responsibility. You ought to feel a little kindly toward them. We can’t always be young, honey.”

Of course he really did not believe that last thought, because time, in those days, was entirely in his favor.

There was nothing like the Adirondacks to make one sleep when one finally did get to sleep, and there were never more comfortable beds than the twin beds in their suite at The Old Chief. In later years when Willis read the advertisements of the friendly service of certain large hotels which supplied each guest with a mattress equipped with countless thousands of tiny springs, each spring contributing to perfect posture and slumber, and on the occasions when Willis sometimes tossed restlessly upon these mattresses far away from home and worrying about some business interview, he often thought of The Old Chief. No air-conditioned room could ever duplicate the gentle breeze off the lake.

Sometime in the middle of the night, however, he was awakened by a sound from Sylvia’s bed and at first he had a startled idea that she was crying, and then he was almost sure that she was laughing. Yet it seemed to him that the hour was inappropriate for joy or sorrow. He could discern the shape of the twin bed across from him, but he could not see Sylvia at all.

“Sylvia,” he said, “are you all right?”

“I’m all right,” she answered through the dark. “I just don’t seem to be able to go to sleep, that’s all.”

“Sylvia,” he asked her, “are you laughing or are you crying?”

There was a silence in the room that lasted a considerable time before she answered.

“I don’t know what I’m doing—and don’t ask questions, Willis.”

“Sylvia,” he said, “you’ve got to tell me what’s the matter.”

“Oh, please stop it, Willis,” she said.

“If it’s anything I’ve said, if I’ve been too—er—demanding or anything, honey, just tell me,” he told her.

At last he was sure that she was laughing more than she was crying.

“It isn’t anything like that,” she said. “You’re awfully sweet, darling, but everything’s so different.”

“So different from what?” And he waited for quite a while before he asked the question.

“Oh, darling,” she said, “just so different from anything I thought anything was going to be. It’s on another plane, but I’ll get used to it—only please don’t talk about it any more tonight.”

Often Willis said facetiously that his mind was like an alarm clock and that he never needed to put in a call at any hotel switchboard. At any rate he was always awake by seven, and Sylvia was still asleep that next morning, which was another preview of years to come.

He was delighted to see that it was a beautiful clear morning. The prospectus of Chieftain Manor had made mention of the winelike quality of the pine-bough-laden mountain air, a description that really made sense. He slid out of bed noiselessly, wrapping himself in the silk robe which he had purchased especially for the trip, and, carrying Volume II of the Five-Foot Shelf with him, tiptoed to the sitting room. He customarily did twenty push-ups, but he did twenty-five that morning, because of the elixir in the air. It was still only twenty minutes past seven when he had finished, ample time for his reading. When his fifteen minutes were up he experienced as he always did a fine sense of accomplishment that came of such a combined mental and physical workout, and the indoor swimming pool downstairs was yet to come.

He picked up the room telephone, asking for the pool and speaking softly so as not to arouse Sylvia.

“Am I speaking to the instructor?” he asked. “This is Mr. Willis Wayde. If I came down right now could you give me a half-hour lesson with the Australian crawl?”

He was back by ten minutes past eight prepared to awaken Sylvia, only to find her awake already, with a rather ugly blue-flannel wrapper over her pajamas, which reminded him that he must take Sylvia shopping as soon as they were dressed.

“Willis,” Sylvia said, “where under the sun have you been, wandering around in your wrapper?”

“Oh,” he told her, “the usual thing—first the old setting-up exercises, and then the Five-Foot Shelf.”

“Willis,” she said, “you didn’t.”

“And then,” he said, “it just occurred to me that I could have a swimming lesson in the indoor pool, you know. They’ve got a good instructor there. It was a nice workout, honey.”

“What under the sun were you doing that for?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve always wanted to learn the Australian crawl.”

“The Australian crawl?” she repeated.

He wondered sometimes later whether he would ever have spoken of that incident at another time or place, but the air was like wine that morning.

“You know, in Clyde,” he said, “there was a young fellow who could do the crawl beautifully. I saw him do it once in the Harcourt swimming pool after he had whipped me playing tennis. His name was Ed Ewing, the one who married Bess Harcourt—not that any of it makes any difference, honey.”

And this was true. None of it did make any difference. Bess Harcourt was a memory almost as distant as his days at the mine in Colorado. He simply remembered that Edward Ewing had been very good at the Australian crawl.

“But, Willis,” Sylvia said, “I still don’t see why you want to learn it.”

It was a rather difficult question to answer now that he was back with Sylvia and calling up room service for breakfast.

“Sylvia,” he said, “if we have any—er—children, we’ve got to get a tennis court—one of those that dries off right after the rain, en-tous-cas I think the name is. They must be taught to play tennis, and how to handle themselves—er—gracefully in a swimming pool.”

“You mean,” Sylvia said, “it’s going to help them in a business way?”

He saw that she was laughing at him, but he did not mind.

“Well, seriously, honey,” he said, “both in a business and a social way.”

He was feeling wonderful. The coffee and the buckwheat cakes and the small order of breakfast steak and the toast and strawberry jam were all wonderful.

“And, honey,” he said, “we’d better lay out our program for the day. First I’ll take you shopping. I want to get you some tweeds and a housecoat, and then you and I have both got to have a golf lesson and then I’m going to play a few holes with old P.L. and then it will be time for lunch. Gosh, I’m glad we’re here, honey.”

He had expected a quick, sympathetic smile from Sylvia, which was the least that he deserved. Instead he was surprised that she looked dubious.

“Don’t you think, Willis,” she said, “that if you play golf with Mr. Nagel, we’ll have to keep seeing the Nagels all the time?”

It amazed him that Sylvia could not see the advantages of their seeing as much as possible of the Nagels.

“Now, honey,” he said, and he spoke slowly and carefully, because he knew that he was facing an important moment, “there is one thing we ought to get straight, with all kindness and without emotion. Please don’t look so startled, honey.”

“Then don’t look so stern, Willis,” she said. “We were only talking about the Nagels.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say ‘Only the Nagels,’ honey,” he told her. “They’re pretty important, potentially, in my business future, but more than that they represent—well, a sort of principle, a kind of way of life for both of us.”

When you came to think of it, that phrase “way of life” pretty well dated the conversation. They were back there in the days before World War II. They were only just beginning to define democracy without knowing what the phrase meant. Still it had a solemn ring.

“For heaven’s sake, Willis,” Sylvia said, “I didn’t mean to upset you, but just what have the Nagels got to do with our way of life?”

“You’re not upsetting me, honey,” Willis told her. “Just please let me encapsulate my thought, because it is a thought.”

“What’s that again?” Sylvia asked. “What were you going to do to the thought?”

“Oh,” Willis said, and he laughed. “Maybe it’s an inappropriate word. We always used to use it back at Beakney-Graham, but never mind it now, honey. You let me worry about business. I’ll pay the bills, but you let me run the business end of the combination, honey, and I’ll let you run the home. But the Nagels are business, honey, and you let me run business.”

Marriage in the final analysis consisted of a series of adjustments. There was, as that humorist, artist and writer Mr. James Thurber put it, always a war between the sexes, always a kind of competition, no matter how much you loved someone. Somehow he and Sylvia must have worked out those problems more easily than most of their contemporaries. The reason was, he liked to think, that they each had a real respect for the abilities of the other. Right from the beginning he had respected Sylvia’s mind and cultivation, and he rather liked it when she laughed at him about words like encapsulate, but they both finally understood that cultivation didn’t get you everywhere.