3 Books To Know Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Edith Wharton

or 'dictatingly' of you.” She lifted her hand in protest, and her face was so touching in its distress that for the moment George forgot his anger. He seized that small, troubled hand.

      “Lucy,” he said huskily. “Don't you know that I love you?”

      “Yes—I do.”

      “Don't you love me?”

      “Yes—I do.”

      “Then what does it matter what your father thinks about my doing something or not doing anything? He has his way, and I have mine. I don't believe in the whole world scrubbing dishes and selling potatoes and trying law cases. Why, look at your father's best friend, my Uncle George Amberson—he's never done anything in his life, and—”

      “Oh, yes, he has,” she interrupted. “He was in politics.”

      “Well, I'm glad he's out,” George said. “Politics is a dirty business for a gentleman, and Uncle George would tell you that himself. Lucy, let's not talk any more about it. Let me tell mother when I get home that we're engaged. Won't you, dear?”

      She shook her head.

      “Is it because—”

      For a fleeting instant she touched to her cheek the hand that held hers. “No,” she said, and gave him a sudden little look of renewed gayety. “Let's let it stay 'almost'.”

      “Because your father—”

      “Oh, because it's better!”

      George's voice shook. “Isn't it your father?”

      “It's his ideals I'm thinking of—yes.”

      George dropped her hand abruptly and anger narrowed his eyes. “I know what you mean,” he said. “I dare say I don't care for your father's ideals any more than he does for mine!”

      He tightened the reins, Pendennis quickening eagerly to the trot; and when George jumped out of the runabout before Lucy's gate, and assisted her to descend, the silence in which they parted was the same that had begun when Pendennis began to trot.

      Chapter XVIII

      That evening, after dinner, George sat with his mother and his Aunt Fanny upon the veranda. In former summers, when they sat outdoors in the evening, they had customarily used an open terrace at the side of the house, looking toward the Major's, but that more private retreat now afforded too blank and abrupt a view of the nearest of the new houses; so, without consultation, they had abandoned it for the Romanesque stone structure in front, an oppressive place.

      Its oppression seemed congenial to George; he sat upon the copestone of the stone parapet, his back against a stone pilaster; his attitude not comfortable, but rigid, and his silence not comfortable, either, but heavy. However, to the eyes of his mother and his aunt, who occupied wicker chairs at a little distance, he was almost indistinguishable except for the stiff white shield of his evening frontage.

      “It's so nice of you always to dress in the evening, Georgie,” his mother said, her glance resting upon this surface. “Your Uncle George always used to, and so did father, for years; but they both stopped quite a long time ago. Unless there's some special occasion, it seems to me we don't see it done any more, except on the stage and in the magazines.”

      He made no response, and Isabel, after waiting a little while, as if she expected one, appeared to acquiesce in his mood for silence, and turned her head to gaze thoughtfully out at the street.

      There, in the highway, the evening life of the Midland city had begun. A rising moon was bright upon the tops of the shade trees, where their branches met overhead, arching across the street, but only filtered splashings of moonlight reached the block pavement below; and through this darkness flashed the firefly lights of silent bicycles gliding by in pairs and trios—or sometimes a dozen at a time might come, and not so silent, striking their little bells; the riders' voices calling and laughing; while now and then a pair of invisible experts would pass, playing mandolin and guitar as if handle-bars were of no account in the world—their music would come swiftly, and then too swiftly die away. Surreys rumbled lightly by, with the plod-plod of honest old horses, and frequently there was the glitter of whizzing spokes from a runabout or a sporting buggy, and the sharp, decisive hoof-beats of a trotter. Then, like a cowboy shooting up a peaceful camp, a frantic devil would hurtle out of the distance, bellowing, exhaust racketing like a machine gun gone amuck—and at these horrid sounds the surreys and buggies would hug the curbstone, and the bicycles scatter to cover, cursing; while children rushed from the sidewalks to drag pet dogs from the street. The thing would roar by, leaving a long wake of turbulence; then the indignant street would quiet down for a few minutes—till another came.

      “There are a great many more than there used to be,” Miss Fanny observed, in her lifeless voice, as the lull fell after one of these visitations. “Eugene is right about that; there seem to be at least three or four times as many as there were last summer, and you never hear the ragamuffins shouting 'Get a horse!' nowadays; but I think he may be mistaken about their going on increasing after this. I don't believe we'll see so many next summer as we do now.”

      “Why?” asked Isabel.

      “Because I've begun to agree with George about their being more a fad than anything else, and I think it must be the height of the fad just now. You know how roller-skating came in—everybody in the world seemed to be crowding to the rinks—and now only a few children use rollers for getting to school. Besides, people won't permit the automobiles to be used. Really, I think they'll make laws against them. You see how they spoil the bicycling and the driving; people just seem to hate them! They'll never stand it—never in the world! Of course I'd be sorry to see such a thing happen to Eugene, but I shouldn't be really surprised to see a law passed forbidding the sale of automobiles, just the way there is with concealed weapons.”

      “Fanny!” exclaimed her sister-in-law. “You're not in earnest?”

      “I am, though!”

      Isabel's sweet-toned laugh came out of the dusk where she sat. “Then you didn't mean it when you told Eugene you'd enjoyed the drive this afternoon?”

      “I didn't say it so very enthusiastically, did I?”

      “Perhaps not, but he certainly thought he'd pleased you.”

      “I don't think I gave him any right to think he'd pleased me” Fanny said slowly.

      “Why not? Why shouldn't you, Fanny?”

      Fanny did not reply at once, and when she did, her voice was almost inaudible, but much more reproachful than plaintive. “I hardly think I'd want any one to get the notion he'd pleased me just now. It hardly seems time, yet—to me.”

      Isabel made no response, and for a time the only sound upon the dark veranda was the creaking of the wicker rocking-chair in which Fanny sat—a creaking which seemed to denote content and placidity on the part of the chair's occupant, though at this juncture a series of human shrieks could have been little more eloquent of emotional disturbance. However, the creaking gave its hearer one great advantage: it could be ignored.

      “Have you given up smoking, George?” Isabel asked presently.

      “No.”

      “I hoped perhaps you had, because you've not smoked since dinner. We shan't mind if you care to.”

      “No, thanks.”

      There was silence again, except for the creaking of the rocking-chair; then a low, clear whistle, singularly musical, was heard softly rendering an old air from “Fra Diavolo.” The creaking stopped.

      “Is that you, George?” Fanny asked abruptly.

      “Is that me what?”

      “Whistling 'On Yonder Rock Reclining'?”

      “It's I,” said Isabel.

      “Oh,”