"Not a bit. Isn't it delightful that this is such a democratic country,
with no castes," said Claire.
At this, the first break in the little old lady's undammable flood, Mrs.
Gilson sprang up, yammering, "The rest of you may stay as long as you
like, but if I'm to be home in time to dress for dinner----"
"Yes, and I must be going," babbled Saxton.
Milt noted that his lower lip showed white tooth-marks.
It must be admitted that all of them rather ignored the little old lady
for a moment. Milt was apologetically hinting, "I don't really think
Bill and I'd better come to dinner this evening, Mrs. Gilson. Thanks a
lot but---- It's kind of sudden."
Claire again took charge. "Not at all, Milt. Of course you're coming. It
was Eva herself who invited you. I'm sure she'll be delighted."
"Charmed," said Mrs. Gilson, with the expression of one who has
swallowed castor oil and doubts the unity of the universe.
There was a lack of ease about the farewells to Aunt Harriet. As they
all turned away she beckoned Milt and murmured, "Did I raise the
dickens? I tried to. It's the only solace besides smoking that a moral
old lady can allow herself, after she gets to be eighty-two and begins
to doubt everything they used to teach her. Come and see me, boy. Now
get out, and, boy, beat up Gene Gilson. Don't be scared of his wife's
hoity-toity ways. Just sail in."
"I will," said Milt.
He had one more surprise before he reached the limousine.
Bill McGolwey, who had sat listening to everything and scratching his
cheek in a puzzled way, seized Milt's sleeve and rumbled: "Good-by, old hoss. I'm not going to butt in on your game and get you in
Dutch. Gosh, I never supposed you had enough class to mingle with
elittys like this gang, but I know when I'm in wrong. You were too darn
decent to kick me out. Do it myself. You're best friend I ever had
and---- Good luck, old man! God bless you!"
Bill was gone, running, stumbling, fleeing past Aunt Harriet's cottage,
off into a sandy hilltop vacancy. The last Milt saw of him was when, on
the skyline, Bill stopped for a glance back, and seemed to be digging
his knuckles into his eyes.
Then Milt turned resolutely, marched down the stairs, said to his hosts
with a curious quietness, "Thank you for asking me to dinner, but I'm
afraid I can't come. Claire, will you walk a few blocks with me?"
During the half minute it had taken to descend the steps, Milt had
reflected, with an intensity which forgot Bill, that he had been
selfish; that he had thought only of the opinion of these "nice people"
regarding himself, instead of understanding that it was his duty to save
Claire from their enervating niceness. Not that he phrased it quite in
this way. What he had been muttering was: "Rotten shame--me so scared of folks' clothes that I don't stand up to
'em and keep 'em from smothering Claire. Lord, it would be awful if she
settled down to being a Mrs. Jeff Saxton. Got to save her--not for
myself--for her."