The Magnificent Ambersons - Booth Tarkington [90]
Eugene continued to look at him with a scrutiny in which began to gleam a profound anger, none the less powerful because it was so quiet. “I am afraid I do not understand you.”
“I doubt if I could make it much plainer,” George said, raising his voice slightly, “but I’ll try. You’re not wanted in this house, Mr. Morgan, now or at any other time. Perhaps you’ll understand—this!”
And with the last word he closed the door in Eugene’s face.
Then, not moving away, he stood just inside the door, and noted that the misty silhouette remained upon the frosted glass for several moments, as if the forbidden gentleman debated in his mind what course to pursue. “Let him ring again!” George thought grimly. “Or try the side door—or the kitchen!”
But Eugene made no further attempt; the silhouette disappeared; footsteps could be heard withdrawing across the floor of the veranda; and George, returning to the window in the “reception room,” was rewarded by the sight of an automobile manufacturer in baffled retreat, with all his wooing furs and fineries mocking him. Eugene got into his car slowly, not looking back at the house which had just taught him such a lesson; and it was easily visible—even from a window seventy feet distant—that he was not the same light suitor who had jumped so gallantly from the car only a few minutes earlier. Observing the heaviness of his movements as he climbed into the tonneau, George indulged in a sickish throat rumble which bore a distant cousinship to mirth.
The car was quicker than its owner; it shot away as soon as he had sunk into his seat; and George, having watched its impetuous disappearance from his field of vision, ceased to haunt the window. He went to the library, and, seating himself beside the table whereon he had placed the photograph of his father, picked up a book, and pretended to be engaged in reading it.
Presently Isabel’s buoyant step was heard descending the stairs, and her low, sweet whistling, renewing the air of “Lord Bateman.” She came into the library, still whistling thoughtfully, a fur coat over her arm, ready to put on, and two veils round her small black hat, her right hand engaged in buttoning the glove upon her left; and, as the large room contained too many pieces of heavy furniture, and the inside shutters excluded most of the light of day, she did not at once perceive George’s presence. Instead, she went to the bay window at the end of the room, which afforded a view of the street, and glanced out expectantly; then bent her attention upon her glove; after that, looked out toward the street again, ceased to whistle, and turned toward the interior of the room.
“Why, Georgie!”
She came, leaned over from behind him, and there was a faint, exquisite odour as from distant apple-blossoms as she kissed his cheek. “Dear, I waited lunch almost an hour for you, but you didn’t come! Did you lunch out somewhere?”
“Yes.” He did not look up from the book.
“Did you have plenty to eat?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Wouldn’t you like to have Maggie get you something now in the dining room? Or they could bring it to you here, if you think it would be cosier. Shan’t I—”
“No.”
A tinkling bell was audible, and she moved to the doorway into the hall. “I’m going out driving, dear. I—” She interrupted herself to address the housemaid, who was passing through the hall: “I think it’s Mr. Morgan, Mary. Tell him I’ll be there at once.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mary returned. “ ’Twas a pedlar, ma’am.”
“Another one?” Isabel said, surprised. “I thought you said it was a pedlar when the bell rang a little while ago.”
“Mister George said it was, ma’am; he went to the door,” Mary informed her, disappearing.
“There seem to be a great many of them,” Isabel mused. “What did yours want to sell, George?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You must have cut him off short!” she laughed; and then, still standing in the doorway, she noticed the big silver frame upon the table beside