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Authors: Philip Wylie
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it is. The big brown eyes, the well-made if slightly undersized chassis, or that wobble in your vocal cords. But they work, if you work them. Now, be a good kid and drag your prof over here."
She looked mournfully out of the French windows and down the arched patio, over the sun-polished Macey lawn to the garden hedge. "I'll try again," she said miserably.
Just exactly how he found himself walking home that afternoon with Marigold Macey, the professor could not be sure. He was preparing his work for the next term--a morass of pressing details. The strong easterly which had risen on Sunday evening might die down soon; if so, he would have to be absent from Coral Gables for a time. He was trying to get ready when Marigold appeared in his office.
She asked some trivial question about the work in the following term. She sat on his desk, patted his arm, batted her eyes, switched herself about, and urged him to accompany her home for tea. She did not call him, "honey-chile"; a girl has to draw the line somewhere.
Her home was several blocks away, in the opposite direction from Bedelia's--and he found himself walking with the girl at his side. She seemed very happy. And he was not displeased. He recalled the unmistakable leer he had given her in the College Inn Tearoom, the notion that had prompted the grimace, and his subsequent conclusion that it had doubtless forever alienated Miss Macey. It seemed not to have done so. On the contrary.
As they walked, she talked of this and that. "You detest Miss Orme, don't you?"
she said.
"There's something about her. The snood. Always reminds me of a beaver's tail."
Marigold chuckled. "Your star student-- but . . . !"
"Intellectually overenergetic, if such a thing is possible." He smiled. "Going to be a social worker, she says. I have no doubt of it. I can imagine her thrusting principle and theory on the underprivileged--with all the whelming purposefulness of a bulldozer. I shouldn't make such a statement about a student. But Miss Orme. . . !"
"Not liking her, shows good taste in women."
"Really?" He had never viewed it from that angle.
"Of course! Don't be naïve!"
They reached her residence. "We'll go in the side and around to the garden," she said. "Tea won't be ready for a while--not till Dad's home."
The garden was hedge-enclosed and contained, besides a round pool where fishes swam and water lilies floated, some aluminum furniture and a barbecue fireplace.
Marigold chose a languorous double chair and patted the place at her side. He sat. The sun was very low and the air was suffused with orange light. She took his hand. "Nice of you to come over."
"I'm very glad I did it."
"I thought you sort of--disliked me."
"Nothing could be farther from the truth."
These, and some further platitudinous remarks, along with the warm feel of the girl's hand in his own, led to a recrudescence of a recent sentiment. It became so acute that he let go of her hand and rose with the thought of sauntering over to the pool.
Marigold, however, interposed herself between him and the pool. Why not? his brain suggested. She was looking up at him with an extravagant brilliance in her eyes--which at least suggested she might consent to the experiment. He stepped forward, put his arms around her, and kissed her firmly, unprofessorially.
"Great gad, man!" the judge bellowed, coming through the hedge.
Professor Burke's mind rocketed back to what constituted reality for him. He loosened his hold of the girl. He thought of his situation in the terms in which he had been reared to think. The man with the grey temples, flushed face and irate voice was plainly her father. At that moment the professor felt passionately enamored of Miss Macey. So he said, rather croakingly, "My intentions are perfectly--"
"To hell with your intentions! You're trampling my pineapple!"
Professor Burke jumped.
Marigold, who was both pleased and astonished by the past twenty or thirty seconds of her
She looked mournfully out of the French windows and down the arched patio, over the sun-polished Macey lawn to the garden hedge. "I'll try again," she said miserably.
Just exactly how he found himself walking home that afternoon with Marigold Macey, the professor could not be sure. He was preparing his work for the next term--a morass of pressing details. The strong easterly which had risen on Sunday evening might die down soon; if so, he would have to be absent from Coral Gables for a time. He was trying to get ready when Marigold appeared in his office.
She asked some trivial question about the work in the following term. She sat on his desk, patted his arm, batted her eyes, switched herself about, and urged him to accompany her home for tea. She did not call him, "honey-chile"; a girl has to draw the line somewhere.
Her home was several blocks away, in the opposite direction from Bedelia's--and he found himself walking with the girl at his side. She seemed very happy. And he was not displeased. He recalled the unmistakable leer he had given her in the College Inn Tearoom, the notion that had prompted the grimace, and his subsequent conclusion that it had doubtless forever alienated Miss Macey. It seemed not to have done so. On the contrary.
As they walked, she talked of this and that. "You detest Miss Orme, don't you?"
she said.
"There's something about her. The snood. Always reminds me of a beaver's tail."
Marigold chuckled. "Your star student-- but . . . !"
"Intellectually overenergetic, if such a thing is possible." He smiled. "Going to be a social worker, she says. I have no doubt of it. I can imagine her thrusting principle and theory on the underprivileged--with all the whelming purposefulness of a bulldozer. I shouldn't make such a statement about a student. But Miss Orme. . . !"
"Not liking her, shows good taste in women."
"Really?" He had never viewed it from that angle.
"Of course! Don't be naïve!"
They reached her residence. "We'll go in the side and around to the garden," she said. "Tea won't be ready for a while--not till Dad's home."
The garden was hedge-enclosed and contained, besides a round pool where fishes swam and water lilies floated, some aluminum furniture and a barbecue fireplace.
Marigold chose a languorous double chair and patted the place at her side. He sat. The sun was very low and the air was suffused with orange light. She took his hand. "Nice of you to come over."
"I'm very glad I did it."
"I thought you sort of--disliked me."
"Nothing could be farther from the truth."
These, and some further platitudinous remarks, along with the warm feel of the girl's hand in his own, led to a recrudescence of a recent sentiment. It became so acute that he let go of her hand and rose with the thought of sauntering over to the pool.
Marigold, however, interposed herself between him and the pool. Why not? his brain suggested. She was looking up at him with an extravagant brilliance in her eyes--which at least suggested she might consent to the experiment. He stepped forward, put his arms around her, and kissed her firmly, unprofessorially.
"Great gad, man!" the judge bellowed, coming through the hedge.
Professor Burke's mind rocketed back to what constituted reality for him. He loosened his hold of the girl. He thought of his situation in the terms in which he had been reared to think. The man with the grey temples, flushed face and irate voice was plainly her father. At that moment the professor felt passionately enamored of Miss Macey. So he said, rather croakingly, "My intentions are perfectly--"
"To hell with your intentions! You're trampling my pineapple!"
Professor Burke jumped.
Marigold, who was both pleased and astonished by the past twenty or thirty seconds of her
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