Read Online Love & Mrs. Sargent by Patrick Dennis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Dennis
Tags: Fiction & Literature
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Malvern worried for fear he was guilty of another gaffe. “Right you are,” he said with an unconvincing chuckle. “Funny about local customs. I mean the way people in New York pro nounce Houston Street House-ton and in Atlanta they say Punsedlian for Ponce de Leon and as for the streets in London.. . .” He let it drop there. He didn’t want to appear to be flaunting his erudition.
The very act of transporting this Johnson from Chicago to Lake Forest had caused Mr. Malvern several sleepless nights. As the representative of an important national magazine writing an important story on the most important of the Famous Features columnists, protocol might well have demanded that this Johnson be met at the airport by the Famous Features company Cadillac and chauffeur. Or it might have seemed more gracious for Sheila, as interviewee and hostess, to have sent her car and Taylor down to meet him. But Sheila had turned thumbs down on that. It was far too grande dame, she said, and besides she needed the car herself. The solution finally arrived at, with the help of his secretary, the redoubtable Miss Roseberry, was that Johnson could get into town on his own and then Mr. Malvern could drive him out in his car. Miss Roseberry had allowed—and Mr. Malvern was usually inclined to accept her advice on things social—that this arrangement would seem both casual and friendly, giving the men a chance for a Good Long Talk and yet not giving this Johnson the impression that Famous Features had been scared into treating him like a visiting potentate.
Now Mr. Malvern wondered if it might not have been wiser to have sent this Johnson out to Lake Forest quite alone in the company car. It would have been easier on both of them— especially on Mr. Malvern. The Good Long Talk had been going on since one o’clock in the Tavern Club bar. It was now just after four and the conversation had run rather thin. Howard Malvern only liked to talk business and business was one topic to steer clear of with a reporter from Worldwide Weekly, His fund of small talk was indeed small and whenever he did pass an innocent remark he worried it into a mortal insult.
There was this car, for example. It was a black Imperial convertible—his first sporty gesture after a long series of Buick sedans. Until today he had been inordinately proud of it and had rather planned to woo Sheila with it over a series of bucolic jaunts. But when Johnson had asked what kind of a car it was, Mr. Malvern had said “An Imperial—Chrysler, you know—next year’s model.”
“Nice,” Johnson had said.
Leaping at the bait, Mr. Malvern had envisaged a lengthy interchange devoted to carburetors and transmissions, fuel con sumption and trade-in values. “What kind of car do you drive?”
“None. You couldn’t give me one,” Johnson had said. “Not in New York.”
Now Mr. Malvern wondered whether his talk about next year’s model hadn’t seemed woefully ostentatious, whether Johnson, the big New York wheel, considered him a small town sport or, worse, an elderly playboy.
When Malvern had pointed out the apartment hotel where he lived, Johnson had said “Very elegant.” Then, just to prove that he wasn’t ostentatious at all, Malvern had said, “It’s not really elegant. I just live in a bachelor apartment with Duke.”
“Duke?” Johnson had asked,
“My doberman. You see I’m divorced.”
“I see,” the inscrutable Mr. Johnson had muttered.
Now just what could he have meant by that? Could this Johnson have suspected that there could have been, well, an unnatural relationship between Malvern and Duke? That is, could he have thought that they were more to one another than simply owner and pet? By having mentioned divorce so close on the heels, as it were, of Duke, could this Johnson have imagined that Alice Malvern—now a Mrs. Livingston residing in SanFrancisco—had named Duke as a rival for her affections in the divorce suit? Why, that was all more than
The very act of transporting this Johnson from Chicago to Lake Forest had caused Mr. Malvern several sleepless nights. As the representative of an important national magazine writing an important story on the most important of the Famous Features columnists, protocol might well have demanded that this Johnson be met at the airport by the Famous Features company Cadillac and chauffeur. Or it might have seemed more gracious for Sheila, as interviewee and hostess, to have sent her car and Taylor down to meet him. But Sheila had turned thumbs down on that. It was far too grande dame, she said, and besides she needed the car herself. The solution finally arrived at, with the help of his secretary, the redoubtable Miss Roseberry, was that Johnson could get into town on his own and then Mr. Malvern could drive him out in his car. Miss Roseberry had allowed—and Mr. Malvern was usually inclined to accept her advice on things social—that this arrangement would seem both casual and friendly, giving the men a chance for a Good Long Talk and yet not giving this Johnson the impression that Famous Features had been scared into treating him like a visiting potentate.
Now Mr. Malvern wondered if it might not have been wiser to have sent this Johnson out to Lake Forest quite alone in the company car. It would have been easier on both of them— especially on Mr. Malvern. The Good Long Talk had been going on since one o’clock in the Tavern Club bar. It was now just after four and the conversation had run rather thin. Howard Malvern only liked to talk business and business was one topic to steer clear of with a reporter from Worldwide Weekly, His fund of small talk was indeed small and whenever he did pass an innocent remark he worried it into a mortal insult.
There was this car, for example. It was a black Imperial convertible—his first sporty gesture after a long series of Buick sedans. Until today he had been inordinately proud of it and had rather planned to woo Sheila with it over a series of bucolic jaunts. But when Johnson had asked what kind of a car it was, Mr. Malvern had said “An Imperial—Chrysler, you know—next year’s model.”
“Nice,” Johnson had said.
Leaping at the bait, Mr. Malvern had envisaged a lengthy interchange devoted to carburetors and transmissions, fuel con sumption and trade-in values. “What kind of car do you drive?”
“None. You couldn’t give me one,” Johnson had said. “Not in New York.”
Now Mr. Malvern wondered whether his talk about next year’s model hadn’t seemed woefully ostentatious, whether Johnson, the big New York wheel, considered him a small town sport or, worse, an elderly playboy.
When Malvern had pointed out the apartment hotel where he lived, Johnson had said “Very elegant.” Then, just to prove that he wasn’t ostentatious at all, Malvern had said, “It’s not really elegant. I just live in a bachelor apartment with Duke.”
“Duke?” Johnson had asked,
“My doberman. You see I’m divorced.”
“I see,” the inscrutable Mr. Johnson had muttered.
Now just what could he have meant by that? Could this Johnson have suspected that there could have been, well, an unnatural relationship between Malvern and Duke? That is, could he have thought that they were more to one another than simply owner and pet? By having mentioned divorce so close on the heels, as it were, of Duke, could this Johnson have imagined that Alice Malvern—now a Mrs. Livingston residing in SanFrancisco—had named Duke as a rival for her affections in the divorce suit? Why, that was all more than
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