Little Joyce, earliest of the three, was out there already. Her curls floating, golden, a daffodil child, a fairy child, she ran squeaking from new planted apple to new planted pear and plum, and looked up into their frail little branches as if in hope to find blossoms there. Or, since new fruit trees have the naïve uncertain lines of a child's drawing, as if she had come back, like a kindergarten Proserpine, to add the flowers herself. As a matter of fact, being more optimistic than her father supposed, and a good deal less poetic, the child was looking for fruit.
She now ran in as Edna came down, and they seated themselves for breakfast, smiling like a family in an advertisement. There was so much news to exchange, it was like opening a tremendous mail. Edna had been visiting her parents; her father was a professor at U.C.L.A.
«He is postponing his Sabbatical year,» said Edna. «He wants to wait till the wars are all over. Maybe he'll take it the year before his retiring date. Then he'll be able really to see China.»
«Lucky old devil!» said Henry. «I wish they gave us a Sabbatical year at the museum. My God, with a morning like this, and you back, I could do with a Sabbatical day. It's a pity you were so tired last night. Damn the museum!»
«That reminds me,» said Edna. «I've a dreadful confession to make, darling.»
«Dreadful?» said Henry. «No vast expenditure, I hope. We're pretty pinched.»
«Not that sort of thing,» said she. «Perhaps it's worse. To me, at the time, it seemed just sort of super-silliness. You know how different things seem out there.»
«Why, what was it?» said Henry. «What are you driving at?»
«Joyce,» said Edna. «Is your milk all gone? Go out in the garden, darling. Go and see if your little table and chair are still there.»
«Mummy, I want to hear what you did, that was silly.»
«You can't hear that, darling. It's not for a little girl to hear.»
«Oh, Mummy!»
«Joyce,» said Henry. «Your mother said 'go out.' Go at once, please. Right away. That's right. Now, Edna, what on earth is it?»
«Well, it was when I spent that week at the Dickinsons. There was a man there, at lunch one day …»
«Oh? Go on.»
«He was in pictures.»
«An actor?» cried Henry. «Not an actor!»
«No, not an actor. Though, after all, why not? However, he was just in one of the big companies. He seemed quite all right. Well — I know it was ridiculous of me —»
«Do go on,» said Henry.
«He saw Joyce. She was showing off a little — you know how she shows off. Anyway, he begged me to let him have a screen test made.»
«Of Joyce?» cried Henry. «Well! Well! Well! Is that all? Ha! Ha! Ha!»
«But I did. I let him. I took her down.»
«Well, after all, why not?» said Henry. «If it gave you pleasure. Of course, nothing will ever make you scrupulous, darling, about wasting people's time and money. It's just the same in shops. Did they give you a print?»
«No. They don't give you a print. I don't know why I let them do it. It was just silly. I didn't want to seem stuffy.»
«I wish you hadn't done it,» said Henry. «It's not the right thing for a child. She's self-conscious enough already. I really don't know, Edna, how you could do such a thing. One has no right to be silly, as you call it, where a child is concerned.»
He went on in this strain for some time. «You are perfectly right,» said Edna. «But you need not go on so long. I've said I was a fool, and I'm sorry. Now it's late: we shan't see the garden. You must get your tram.»
«It is your fault,» said he, «for taking the child to a damned film studio. The garden must wait. Goodbye, I'm off.»
Henry caught his train, and vastly enjoyed the landscape all the way to the edge of the city, where the spring haze had thickened and greyed a little, and the day had lost its bloom. The park, outside Henry's office in the museum building, looked pinched and mean and dull compared with the neighbourhood of Tarrytown. The morning was rather tedious, lunch was dull; after lunch, Henry's telephone rang. «Mr. Sanford? This is the New York office of Cosmos Films.»
«Yes. Go on.»
«Mr. Sanford, you heard of your lovely little girl's screen test? Well, I've been calling your home, Mr. Sanford. Seemed like nobody was in. Finally we located you at your office.»
«So I observe. But why?»
«Very good news, Mr. Sanford. In fact, my very heartiest congratulations. I wonder if we could get together for a little chat.»
«Better tell me about it right away,» said Henry, seeing what was coming. «I'm afraid I'm having a very busy spell.»
«The fact is,» said the other, «our Hollywood end is mighty interested in the results of your little girl's screen test. I think if we can get together I can tell you something that would interest you a lot.»
«I don't think you could,» said Henry, luxuriously sadistic. «Thanks very much. Goodbye.»
«Mr. Sanford. Mr. Sanford,» came the voice at the other end. «You don't understand. Please don't hang up.»
«I take it you are offering my child a … a screen contract?» said Henry.
«Well, yes, Mr. Sanford. I think I can go as far as that.»
«And I think I can go so far as to refuse,» said Henry.
«But, Mr. Sanford, do you realize? Do you realize what sort of money's involved in this, what it can build up to? The fame. The world-wide prestige … Mr. Sanford, I'm just asking you to think, to consider.»
«My dear sir,» said Henry, «I consider it all a very bad joke.»
«Oh, no,» said the other voice in a positive anguish of earnestness. «This is Cosmos Films all right. Call me back if you doubt it. Maurice Werner. Just call me back.»
«I mean,» said Henry, «I think the fame, prestige, and all that is a bad joke. I should not like my child to have anything whatever to do with your industry. I dislike theatrical children. Now I must say goodbye.»
So saying, he hung up, cutting off a squeal of protest
He turned to his work, which, it so happened, had to do with tenders for the electric wiring of showcases. The relish with which he had rebuked the powers of spiritual darkness abated a little in face of these figures on cultural light He fondled the flake from a stone cheek that served him as a paper-weight. All winter it had exuded a little of its stored four thousand years of sunshine into the grey of his office. Today, however, it seemed just a lump of stone. Yet somewhere in the general greyness there was something — it was very vague, very elusive — a mere memory of a golden gleam.
Suddenly, he found himself thinking of the yellow waistcoat. Or rather, he just saw it. He saw the waistcoat, and he saw himself inside that waistcoat, on the steps of a small but solid country house; a man of leisure, a scholar, a gentleman.
This vivid but very secret waistcoat, of a colour strong as corn colour, but bright as canary, was not wholly imaginary. Seven years ago, on their honeymoon, Henry and Edna had been to Europe, including England, and, in England, to the races. In the paddock Henry had noticed an old man with a red face and white hair. Even as he looked at him he overheard someone saying, «See the old man with the red face and white hair. That's Lord Lonsdale. The one in the yellow waistcoat»
Henry had had a good look at him; he found his red-faced lordship more interesting than the horses. He noted the unusual amplitude of the whitey-grey tweeds, which gave the old boy, with his side whiskers and apple cheeks, the appearance of a bluff old farmer as he stood among the fashionable crowd. Henry, whose taste was of the best, recognized this bucolic touch as the mark of the true prince.