Gentlemen don’t listen to other gentlemen’s phone-calls, she reminded herself, amused now by the low-voiced conversation that Brad and Tony had begun. But I’m no gentleman. It was Chuck on the ’phone. She could tell from Tom’s face as he listened. Her heart sank.
Tom stopped beside her chair. “He forgot all about this evening,” he said quietly, and managed a smile.
“Did he actually say—” she began, indignation showing in spite of all her resolutions.
“No, no. Pressure of work. He’s dropping in here for a quick drink. Needs to borrow my typewriter.”
“I’ll get it ready for him.” The portable’s travelling-case was in the bedroom closet with Tom’s bags. She left Tom explaining his brother’s visit, and when she came back they were on the topic of Shandon House—old Simon’s brainchild, Tony called it. Simon Shandon would have been astonished to see how big it had become.
“Not in numbers,” said Brad. “They’ve held that down. But in impact—yes. Your brother must be a whiz-kid, Tom, to get in there.”
“He’s got most of the family brains.”
Not true, not true, Dorothea thought in quick defence; but she let Tom have his moment of modesty. Damn it all, why did he always downgrade himself with Chuck? A long-standing habit, meant to encourage the young and bolster their confidence?
“What is Shandon going to do with its new property?” Tony asked. “Expand into Europe?”
I’m at sea again, thought Dorothea: what new property?
Brad noted her expression, began to explain. Simon Shandon’s widow had never liked New Jersey, never even liked living in America. She preferred their villa on the Riviera. So, under the terms of old Simon’s will, that was what she had been left—the villa, and a yearly allowance for the extent of her lifetime. When she died—no children, no near relatives to complicate Simon’s wishes—the Riviera estate would become the property of Shandon House. She had obliged them by dying three weeks ago at the age of ninety-two, still fuming against her husband’s will and all the wealth he had invested in New Jersey.
“Probably that’s why she stayed alive so long—out of sheer pique,” Tony said. “So now Shandon has a place near Menton. How very snazzy! Will it be a Rest and Recreation centre for tired intellects?”
“They could treat it in the way Harvard dealt with the Berenson villa near Florence,” said Brad.
“A sort of Shandon-By-The-Sea?”
“Without computers. Just a gathering of brains, American and European, setting themselves problems to solve. A series of evening seminars after a day of solitary meditation.” Brad’s smile widened.
Tony said, “Each man with a private office and his feet up on his desk, thinking great thoughts as he stares out at the blue Mediterranean? It’s a marvellous racket, this Institute business. Cosy little set-up, and tax-free.”
“They do justify their existence,” Tom reminded him.
“Every now and again. But—” Tony sighed—“it can be a dangerous situation, too. Get it under political control, and where will we all be? Listening to advice that will leave us more bewildered than ever.” He smiled for Dorothea. “I bewilder very easily,” he told her. She wondered about that.
The telephone rang—the desk in the lobby announcing Chuck’s arrival. Dorothea packed the portable typewriter into its case. Tom had already opened the door and was waiting in the corridor, no doubt to tip Chuck off about the guests inside.
Chuck entered, his arm round Tom’s shoulder. “Really sorry,” he was explaining, “but I’ve got a rush job to finish. You know what deadlines are like, Tom.” He relaxed as he saw that everyone—even Thea, or rather Dorothea: Thea was Tom’s privilege, she insisted on that—accepted his explanation. He looked tired enough, God knew. And it was a relief to find others here: he could beg off staying for a twenty-minute chat. With this group there would
Tom stopped beside her chair. “He forgot all about this evening,” he said quietly, and managed a smile.
“Did he actually say—” she began, indignation showing in spite of all her resolutions.
“No, no. Pressure of work. He’s dropping in here for a quick drink. Needs to borrow my typewriter.”
“I’ll get it ready for him.” The portable’s travelling-case was in the bedroom closet with Tom’s bags. She left Tom explaining his brother’s visit, and when she came back they were on the topic of Shandon House—old Simon’s brainchild, Tony called it. Simon Shandon would have been astonished to see how big it had become.
“Not in numbers,” said Brad. “They’ve held that down. But in impact—yes. Your brother must be a whiz-kid, Tom, to get in there.”
“He’s got most of the family brains.”
Not true, not true, Dorothea thought in quick defence; but she let Tom have his moment of modesty. Damn it all, why did he always downgrade himself with Chuck? A long-standing habit, meant to encourage the young and bolster their confidence?
“What is Shandon going to do with its new property?” Tony asked. “Expand into Europe?”
I’m at sea again, thought Dorothea: what new property?
Brad noted her expression, began to explain. Simon Shandon’s widow had never liked New Jersey, never even liked living in America. She preferred their villa on the Riviera. So, under the terms of old Simon’s will, that was what she had been left—the villa, and a yearly allowance for the extent of her lifetime. When she died—no children, no near relatives to complicate Simon’s wishes—the Riviera estate would become the property of Shandon House. She had obliged them by dying three weeks ago at the age of ninety-two, still fuming against her husband’s will and all the wealth he had invested in New Jersey.
“Probably that’s why she stayed alive so long—out of sheer pique,” Tony said. “So now Shandon has a place near Menton. How very snazzy! Will it be a Rest and Recreation centre for tired intellects?”
“They could treat it in the way Harvard dealt with the Berenson villa near Florence,” said Brad.
“A sort of Shandon-By-The-Sea?”
“Without computers. Just a gathering of brains, American and European, setting themselves problems to solve. A series of evening seminars after a day of solitary meditation.” Brad’s smile widened.
Tony said, “Each man with a private office and his feet up on his desk, thinking great thoughts as he stares out at the blue Mediterranean? It’s a marvellous racket, this Institute business. Cosy little set-up, and tax-free.”
“They do justify their existence,” Tom reminded him.
“Every now and again. But—” Tony sighed—“it can be a dangerous situation, too. Get it under political control, and where will we all be? Listening to advice that will leave us more bewildered than ever.” He smiled for Dorothea. “I bewilder very easily,” he told her. She wondered about that.
The telephone rang—the desk in the lobby announcing Chuck’s arrival. Dorothea packed the portable typewriter into its case. Tom had already opened the door and was waiting in the corridor, no doubt to tip Chuck off about the guests inside.
Chuck entered, his arm round Tom’s shoulder. “Really sorry,” he was explaining, “but I’ve got a rush job to finish. You know what deadlines are like, Tom.” He relaxed as he saw that everyone—even Thea, or rather Dorothea: Thea was Tom’s privilege, she insisted on that—accepted his explanation. He looked tired enough, God knew. And it was a relief to find others here: he could beg off staying for a twenty-minute chat. With this group there would
Similar Books
