Read Online Love & Mrs. Sargent by Patrick Dennis - Free Book Online

just removed. While he moaned and groaned in the steam room, she emptied the ashtrays, washed his glass, turned off the flame under the coffee, emptied the ice bucket with a clattering of cubes.
    “For God’s sake,” her brother yelled over the hissing of the steam, “isn’t this enough? I feel like a plum pudding. I can’t stand any more.”
    “All right, Dicky. Now turn on the cold water. Not hot, notwarm, but cold, and stay under just as long as you can hear it and then a little longer. Then have another cup of coffee and come straight to Mother’s office. Floodie’s all alone in there acting like a. . . .” Dicky’s roars of anguish drowned out the rest of her instructions. She turned off the light in the kitchen and closed the shutters.
    “Don’t be long, Dicky,” she called. “Please.”
    “I’ll be right along, Allison. And thanks.”
    “Don’t mention it, Dicky.”
    “Hey, Allison?”
    “Yes,” she said wearily.
    “You know what?”
    “No, what?”
    “I was just thinking: You’ve really got it made. Nothing to do all day. No chapters to write and rewrite. Just go around to dances and parties and be popular until some sap takes it into his head to support you, forever and ever. Boy, that must really be the life.”
    “Yes, Dicky,” Allison said. “It’s really the life.”

IX.
     
    To Sheila’s dismay, the cluster of sleeve-pluckers lurking at the door of the hotel was thicker than usual. There they were, timidly importunate, volubly tongue-tied, lying in ambush to trap the lion.
    Sheila recognized the standard brands and dealt with them accordingly. There had been the garrulous old biddies who spoketo her only so that they could claim to know—”that is, I’ve met”— Sheila Sargent.
    Four women had thrust out copies of her books to be autographed. One of them had brought along three, each to be inscribed to people whose names seemed to be composed entirely of consonants.
    “Would you mind spelling that for me?” Sheila had said. “I’m one of the worst spellers in. . . .”
    “Oh, I’ll betchure not, Miss Sarjint. It’s to Mr. and Mrs. Vilhjalmer Bjornqvist. That’s B-J-O-R-N-Q. . . .”
    The fourth had proffered an elderly twenty-five cent edition, its cover limp and dog-eared, its yellowed pages all but falling to the floor.
    A merry old soul had said, “I’m sure you don’t remember, but Mr. Harrington and myself had the pleasure of meeting you and your late husband at the Notre Dame-Army game in 1938.”
    Sheila hadn’t the faintest recollection, but she had a genius for thinking on her feet, for talking a lot and saying little, for taking a safe gamble and for tossing the conversational ball right back and giving the pitcher a chance to send a nice, slow one over home plate. Army-Notre Dame would have meant November; November would have meant cold weather and the woman had already announced her name. At least she didn’t look like the sort of woman who would be living in flagrant concubinage with a man named Harrington.
    “But of course I remember, Mrs. Harrington. I nearly froze to death. Do you still have that wonderful coat?” Sheila didn’t imagine that the woman could have appeared at the stadium in a dimity dress, nor had she expected that her last remark would have struck quite such a response.
    “Oh, that old raccoon coat. Well, it’s so awful looking I don’tblame you for remembering. And you know the runny thing is I still do have it. I wore it to Marymount, then my daughter at Mundelein and now my granddaughter. It’s just a disgrace to look at but for football games. . . .”
    Sheila had fast footwork and she knew enough to keep moving when she was in a crowd like this one. “You’re absolutely right. There’s nothing wanner than an old raccoon and, for football, nothing smarter! I still envy you. And it was marvelous to see you again.” With that she was on the sidewalk, leaving Mrs. Harrington pink and purled with pride and pleasure. After