3 Books To Know Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Edith Wharton

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 cozier. Shan't I—”

      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 him. “Gracious, Georgie!” she exclaimed. “You have been investing!” and as she came across the room for a closer view, “Is it—is it Lucy?” she asked half timidly, half archly. But the next instant she saw whose likeness was thus set forth in elegiac splendour—and she was silent, except for a long, just-audible “Oh!”

      He neither looked up nor moved.

      “That was nice of you, Georgie,” she said, in a low voice presently. “I ought to have had it framed, myself, when I gave it to you.”

      He said nothing, and, standing beside him, she put her hand gently upon his shoulder, then as gently withdrew it, and went out of the room. But she did not go upstairs; he heard the faint rustle of her dress in the hall, and then the sound of her footsteps in the “reception room.” After a time, silence succeeded even these slight tokens of her presence; whereupon George rose and went warily into the hall, taking care to make no noise, and he obtained an oblique view of her through the open double doors of the “reception room.” She was sitting in the chair which he had occupied so long; and she was looking out of the window expectantly—a little troubled.

      He went back to the library, waited an interminable half hour, then returned noiselessly to the same position in the hall, where he could see her. She was still sitting patiently by the window.

      Waiting for that man, was she? Well, it might be quite a long wait! And the grim George silently ascended the stairs to his own room, and began to pace his suffering floor.

      Chapter XXV

      He left his door open, however, and when he heard the front door-bell ring, by and by, he went half way down the stairs and stood to listen. He was not much afraid that Morgan would return, but he wished to make sure.

      Mary appeared in the hall below him, but, after a glance toward the front of the house, turned back, and withdrew. Evidently Isabel had gone to the door. Then a murmur was heard, and George Amberson's voice, quick and serious: “I want to talk to you, Isabel”... and another murmur; then Isabel and her brother passed the foot of the broad, dark stairway, but did not look up, and remained unconscious of the watchful presence above them. Isabel still carried her cloak upon her arm, but Amberson had taken her hand, and retained it; and as he led her silently into the library there was something about her attitude, and the pose of her slightly bent head, that was both startled and meek. Thus they quickly disappeared from George's sight, hand in hand; and Amberson at once closed the massive double doors of the library.

      For a time all that George could hear was the indistinct sound of his uncle's voice: what he was saying could not be surmised, though the troubled brotherliness of his tone was evident. He seemed to be explaining something at considerable length, and there were moments when he paused, and George guessed that his mother was speaking, but her voice must have been very low, for it was entirely inaudible to him.

      Suddenly he did hear her. Through the heavy doors her outcry came, clear and loud:

      “Oh, no!”

      It was a cry of protest, as if something her brother told her must be untrue, or, if it were true, the fact he stated must be undone; and it was a sound of sheer pain.

      Another sound of pain, close to George, followed it; this was a vehement sniffling which broke out just above him, and, looking up, he saw Fanny Minafer on the landing, leaning over the banisters and applying her handkerchief to her eyes and nose.

      “I can guess what that was about,” she whispered huskily. “He's just told her what you did to Eugene!”

      George gave her a dark look over his shoulder. “You go on back to your room!” he said; and he began to descend the stairs; but Fanny, guessing his purpose, rushed down and caught his arm, detaining him.

      “You're not going in there?”, she whispered huskily. “You don't—”

      “Let go of me!”

      But she clung to him savagely. “No, you don't, Georgie Minafer! You'll keep away from there! You will!”

      “You let go of—”

      “I won't! You come back here! You'll come upstairs and let them alone; that's what you'll do!” And with such passionate determination did she clutch and tug, never losing a grip of him somewhere, though George tried as much as he could, without hurting her, to wrench away—with such utter forgetfulness of her maiden dignity did she assault him, that she forced him, stumbling upward, to the landing.

      “Of all the ridiculous—” he began furiously; but she spared one hand from its grasp of his sleeve and clapped it over his mouth.

      “Hush up!” Never for an instant in this grotesque struggle did Fanny raise her voice above a husky whisper. “Hush up! It's indecent—like squabbling outside the door of an operating-room! Go on to the top of the stairs—go on!”

      And when George had most unwillingly obeyed, she planted herself in his way, on the top step. “There!” she said. “The idea of your going in there now! I never heard of such a thing!” And with the sudden departure of the nervous vigour she had shown so amazingly, she began to cry again. “I was an awful fool! I thought you knew what was going on or I never, never would have done it. Do you suppose I dreamed you'd go making everything into such a tragedy? Do you?”

      “I don't care what you dreamed,” George muttered.

      But Fanny went on, always taking care to keep her voice from getting too loud, in spite of her most grievous agitation. “Do you dream I thought you'd go making such a fool of yourself at Mrs. Johnson's? Oh, I saw her this morning! She wouldn't talk to me, but I met George Amberson on my way back, and he told me what you'd done over there! And do you dream I thought you'd do what you've done here this afternoon to Eugene? Oh, I knew that, too! I was looking out of the front bedroom window, and I saw him drive up, and then go away again, and I knew you'd been to the door. Of course he went to George Amberson about it, and that's why George is here. He's got to tell Isabel the whole thing now, and you wanted to go in there interfering—God knows what! You stay here and let her brother tell her; he's got some consideration for her!”

      “I