Magnificent Ambersons, The - Booth Tarkington [74]
It appeared to him as almost a kind of insolence, this abrupt departure--not even telephoning! Probably she wondered how he would take it; she even might have supposed he would show some betraying chagrin when he heard of it.
He had no idea that this was just what he had shown; and he was satisfied with his evening's performance. Nevertheless, he was not comfortable in his mind; though he could not have explained his inward perturbations, for he was convinced, without any confirmation from his Aunt Fanny, that he had done "just the right thing."
Chapter XX
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Isabel came to George's door that night, and when she had kissed him good-night she remained in the open doorway with her hand upon his shoulder and her eyes thoughtfully lowered, so that her wish to say something more than good-night was evident. Not less obvious was her perplexity about the manner of saying it; and George, divining her thought, amiably made an opening for her.
"Well, old lady," he said indulgently, "you needn't look so worried. I won't be tactless with Morgan again. After this I'll just keep out of his way."
Isabel looked up, searching his face with the fond puzzlement which her eyes sometimes showed when they rested upon him; then she glanced down the hall toward Fanny's room, and, after another moment of hesitation, came quickly in, and closed the door.
"Dear," she said, "I wish you'd tell me something: Why don't you like Eugene?"
"Oh, I like him well enough," George returned, with a short laugh, as he sat down and began to unlace his shoes. "I like him well enough-- in his place."
"No, dear," she said hurriedly. "I've had a feeling from the very first that you didn't really like him--that you really never liked him. Sometimes you've seemed to be friendly with him, and you'd laugh with him over something in a jolly, companionable way, and I'd think I was wrong, and that you really did like him, after all; but to-night I'm sure my other feeling was the right one: you don't like him. I can't understand it, dear; I don't see what can be the matter."
"Nothing's the matter."
This easy declaration naturally failed to carry great weight, and Isabel went on, in her troubled voice, "It seems so queer, especially when you feel as you do about his daughter."
At this, George stopped unlacing his shoes abruptly, and sat up. "How do I feel about his daughter?" he demanded.
"Well, it's seemed--as if--as if--" Isabel began timidly. "It did seem--At least, you haven't looked at any other girl, ever since they came here and--and certainly you've seemed very much interested in her. Certainly you've been very great friends?"
"Well, what of that?"
"It's only that I'm like your grandfather: I can't see how you could be so much interested in a girl and--and not feel very pleasantly toward her father."
"Well, I'll tell you something," George said slowly; and a frown of concentration could be seen upon his brow, as from a profound effort at self-examination. "I haven't ever thought much on that particular point, but I admit there may be a little something in what you say. The truth is, I don't believe I've ever thought of the two together, exactly--at least, not until lately. I've always thought of Lucy just as Lucy, and of Morgan just as Morgan. I've always thought of her as a person herself, not as anybody's daughter. I don't see what's very extraordinary about that. You've probably got plenty of friends, for instance, that don't care much about your son--"
"No, indeed!" she protested quickly. "And if I knew anybody who felt like that, I wouldn't--"
"Never mind," he interrupted. "I'll try to explain a little more. If I have a friend, I don't see that it's incumbent