"Daddy hates that," he confided to Alex, who nodded, thinking,
I'll bet
.
They got off at Union Square. "Where should we go now," Alex asked rhetorically, "to my office or to Dean's?"
"Dean's," Michael voted unhesitatingly. "Is your office nearby?"
"Right there." He pointed to the five-story brownstone on the corner that was the unprepossessing headquarters of Draper, Snow and Ogden. He leaned down and looked Michael in the eye. "Are you saying you would rather go eat hot cross buns and ice cream than get a free tour of an actual architect's drafting room?" he demanded, which caused Michael to dissolve into giggles. "Oh, all right," he said with mock crossness. "Maybe another time."
"I hope so," said Sara, surprising herself because she meant it. "Do you live around here as well?"
"Not far. Tenth Street, over toward Sixth." She only nodded to that, making him wonder what she thought of his humble downtown address. At least he was on the West Side. The place suited him, for now; he could walk to his office, and his sixty-year-old landlady was in love with him. Constance wouldn't set foot in the place—she lived like a countess in Madison Square—but that was not without its advantages, too. Anyway, after the Newport house was finished, he could afford to move as far uptown as he wished.
Dean's was thinning out. It was really too late for tea, Sara knew, but a promise was a promise. Michael would never eat his dinner tonight, and Mrs. Drum would climb up on her high horse again. She sighed tiredly. But Ben would be in Chicago by now, and he was staying for ten days. The thought raised her spirits; she asked for ladyfingers with her coffee, and to hell with her figure.
They sat at a tiny table by the window, gazing out at the hurrying figures of men and women anxious to be home. London was far away and almost forgotten, but sometimes she contrasted its sedate, black-umbrella'd rush hour to New York's and marveled at how much busier, noisier, less
civilized
this one was. Which summed up everything she loved and hated about America, she supposed. She had lost as much as she had gained—in terms of a city to live in, that was. In personal terms—well, that was probably equal too. She'd lost her innocence and her expectations of happiness, and she'd gotten Michael. Did people get what they deserved? She didn't know. She added cream to her coffee and asked Mr. McKie what he thought of the so-called "modern" style of architecture.
He told her. Unpremeditated, even against his will, but prodded by her skillful questioning and her genuine, unaffected interest in his answers, he told her. He even confessed his ambivalence—something he had not done with anyone before, and afterward he told himself that he'd done it with Mrs. Cochrane because he was brimming over with it and she was simply the first person to pry it out of him.
While Michael ate vanilla ice cream and gazed out the window at the passersby, Alex weighed in on his favorite complaint, that America was filling up with imitations. Where was originality in this slavish enthusiasm for Greek revival, Gothic revival, Romanesque, Queen Anne, French Renaissance, Italian Renaissance, even Byzantine? Where were directness, spaciousness, and freedom? The country was wallowing in columns, turrets, pinnacles, balustrades, mansard roofs, stained glass, arches, and gables. Grandomania, that's what it was. Had Sara visited the World's Fair a few years ago in Chicago? She said that she had. Well, what did she think of an exposition that declared there had been no advances since ancient Rome and that an architect's highest duty was to copy?
"What did any of it have to do with
Chicago
!" he demanded. "Chicago is stockyards and railroads and steel mills, not dignity and classical serenity. Did you see any Romans when you were in Chicago? What's it got to do with
America
? This country is young and democratic, industrial, dynamic—where are the buildings that express that?"
"Not
I'll bet
.
They got off at Union Square. "Where should we go now," Alex asked rhetorically, "to my office or to Dean's?"
"Dean's," Michael voted unhesitatingly. "Is your office nearby?"
"Right there." He pointed to the five-story brownstone on the corner that was the unprepossessing headquarters of Draper, Snow and Ogden. He leaned down and looked Michael in the eye. "Are you saying you would rather go eat hot cross buns and ice cream than get a free tour of an actual architect's drafting room?" he demanded, which caused Michael to dissolve into giggles. "Oh, all right," he said with mock crossness. "Maybe another time."
"I hope so," said Sara, surprising herself because she meant it. "Do you live around here as well?"
"Not far. Tenth Street, over toward Sixth." She only nodded to that, making him wonder what she thought of his humble downtown address. At least he was on the West Side. The place suited him, for now; he could walk to his office, and his sixty-year-old landlady was in love with him. Constance wouldn't set foot in the place—she lived like a countess in Madison Square—but that was not without its advantages, too. Anyway, after the Newport house was finished, he could afford to move as far uptown as he wished.
Dean's was thinning out. It was really too late for tea, Sara knew, but a promise was a promise. Michael would never eat his dinner tonight, and Mrs. Drum would climb up on her high horse again. She sighed tiredly. But Ben would be in Chicago by now, and he was staying for ten days. The thought raised her spirits; she asked for ladyfingers with her coffee, and to hell with her figure.
They sat at a tiny table by the window, gazing out at the hurrying figures of men and women anxious to be home. London was far away and almost forgotten, but sometimes she contrasted its sedate, black-umbrella'd rush hour to New York's and marveled at how much busier, noisier, less
civilized
this one was. Which summed up everything she loved and hated about America, she supposed. She had lost as much as she had gained—in terms of a city to live in, that was. In personal terms—well, that was probably equal too. She'd lost her innocence and her expectations of happiness, and she'd gotten Michael. Did people get what they deserved? She didn't know. She added cream to her coffee and asked Mr. McKie what he thought of the so-called "modern" style of architecture.
He told her. Unpremeditated, even against his will, but prodded by her skillful questioning and her genuine, unaffected interest in his answers, he told her. He even confessed his ambivalence—something he had not done with anyone before, and afterward he told himself that he'd done it with Mrs. Cochrane because he was brimming over with it and she was simply the first person to pry it out of him.
While Michael ate vanilla ice cream and gazed out the window at the passersby, Alex weighed in on his favorite complaint, that America was filling up with imitations. Where was originality in this slavish enthusiasm for Greek revival, Gothic revival, Romanesque, Queen Anne, French Renaissance, Italian Renaissance, even Byzantine? Where were directness, spaciousness, and freedom? The country was wallowing in columns, turrets, pinnacles, balustrades, mansard roofs, stained glass, arches, and gables. Grandomania, that's what it was. Had Sara visited the World's Fair a few years ago in Chicago? She said that she had. Well, what did she think of an exposition that declared there had been no advances since ancient Rome and that an architect's highest duty was to copy?
"What did any of it have to do with
Chicago
!" he demanded. "Chicago is stockyards and railroads and steel mills, not dignity and classical serenity. Did you see any Romans when you were in Chicago? What's it got to do with
America
? This country is young and democratic, industrial, dynamic—where are the buildings that express that?"
"Not
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