tells herself, nothing like that is important, really. What matters is how handsome Gordon is, with his thick almost blue-black hair, his lovely fine mouth and clear pale skin. His blue eyes. What matters is love. “Oh, wonderful,” says Lavinia, convincingly, smiling up at Gordon, clutching his arm delicately against her breast.
At the Pudding Lavinia and Gordon know a lot of people, but tonight fewer than usual of their friends are there for dinner. They are all having dinner in Boston, Lavinia imagines. However, she is pleased to see that Gordon leads them to a small table, where they will be alone. They can talk.
They have had a couple of old-fashioneds in the bar downstairs;they are seated and talking about their dinner—maybe some wine?—when suddenly there is a loud clumping noise in the dining room, above all the din of silver and glassware and conversation. Everyone looks up, Lavinia and Gordon too, and there is Potter, who is supposed to be skiing in North Conway. Here he is, though, with a huge cast on his leg. Potter Cobb.
Laughing, his face flushed and his pale blond hair less sleek than usual, he is moving toward their table, hobbling along. As he approaches they can see that both his progress and his balance are impeded by two heavy bottles, one carried in each hand. French champagne—Lavinia knows that label.
Potter is in love with Lavinia, he has been since they first met, last fall, at an after-game party. But he loves her in a pleasant, silent, untroubling way. Lavinia is used to inspiring such feelings, and she really likes Potter, he reminds her of some of her very nicest cousins. But tonight her heart sinks a little at the sight of him.
Potter is sensitive, generally, and his manners, of course, are impeccable. And, tonight, he seems to sense that he should not be there with them, with Gordon and Lavinia, despite his gifts of champagne. “Well, talk about barging in with four left feet,” he says, somewhat breathlessly. “But I couldn’t resist showing you this terrific piece of contemporary sculpture that seems to have landed on my left foot. And just as I was going out of the house the old man pressed these cold bottles into my moist hot hands. As a matter of fact I wasn’t at all sure you’d be here tonight.”
“Well, where else?” To Lavinia, Gordon’s voice has an uncharacteristically hearty sound; it seems to boom. “And pull up a chair if you can make it,” Gordon says. “Of course you’ll have dinner with us. And you can tell us all about your bloody skiing accident.”
Lavinia smiles in an automatically flirtatious way at Potter, who responds, “Our Southern beauty is yet more beautiful, wouldn’t you agree, Gordon, old man?”
“Definitely, definitively. Come on and sit down, you old fool.”
Potter really didn’t have to sit down and have dinner with them, Lavinia is thinking. He could have one glass of wine, and tell them about his stupid ankle, all in about ten or fifteen minutes. Not stayall through dinner, ordering even more wine, and until dessert and coffee.
Brandy.
But that is exactly what Potter does; he stays and stays and talks and talks and talks, and orders drinks that he insists are to go on his tab, like some garrulous rich old uncle. “In all my skiing years I never saw ice like that,” he seems to have said several times.
“What you mean is that you
didn’t
see the ice,” chimes in Gordon. To Lavinia, it is not an especially funny remark, but the two men really break up over it. In fact Gordon seems to be having a wonderful time, and worse, he does everything to encourage Potter to stay with them.
At some point in all the ski talk, Lavinia catches a familiar name: George Wharton. A demon on skis, according to Potter. George Wharton, the beloved of foolish Megan, although Megan doesn’t seem to see him very often.
And so Lavinia asks, “George Wharton, really? Was he by himself up there?”
“Oh, you know George? Well, he was with
At the Pudding Lavinia and Gordon know a lot of people, but tonight fewer than usual of their friends are there for dinner. They are all having dinner in Boston, Lavinia imagines. However, she is pleased to see that Gordon leads them to a small table, where they will be alone. They can talk.
They have had a couple of old-fashioneds in the bar downstairs;they are seated and talking about their dinner—maybe some wine?—when suddenly there is a loud clumping noise in the dining room, above all the din of silver and glassware and conversation. Everyone looks up, Lavinia and Gordon too, and there is Potter, who is supposed to be skiing in North Conway. Here he is, though, with a huge cast on his leg. Potter Cobb.
Laughing, his face flushed and his pale blond hair less sleek than usual, he is moving toward their table, hobbling along. As he approaches they can see that both his progress and his balance are impeded by two heavy bottles, one carried in each hand. French champagne—Lavinia knows that label.
Potter is in love with Lavinia, he has been since they first met, last fall, at an after-game party. But he loves her in a pleasant, silent, untroubling way. Lavinia is used to inspiring such feelings, and she really likes Potter, he reminds her of some of her very nicest cousins. But tonight her heart sinks a little at the sight of him.
Potter is sensitive, generally, and his manners, of course, are impeccable. And, tonight, he seems to sense that he should not be there with them, with Gordon and Lavinia, despite his gifts of champagne. “Well, talk about barging in with four left feet,” he says, somewhat breathlessly. “But I couldn’t resist showing you this terrific piece of contemporary sculpture that seems to have landed on my left foot. And just as I was going out of the house the old man pressed these cold bottles into my moist hot hands. As a matter of fact I wasn’t at all sure you’d be here tonight.”
“Well, where else?” To Lavinia, Gordon’s voice has an uncharacteristically hearty sound; it seems to boom. “And pull up a chair if you can make it,” Gordon says. “Of course you’ll have dinner with us. And you can tell us all about your bloody skiing accident.”
Lavinia smiles in an automatically flirtatious way at Potter, who responds, “Our Southern beauty is yet more beautiful, wouldn’t you agree, Gordon, old man?”
“Definitely, definitively. Come on and sit down, you old fool.”
Potter really didn’t have to sit down and have dinner with them, Lavinia is thinking. He could have one glass of wine, and tell them about his stupid ankle, all in about ten or fifteen minutes. Not stayall through dinner, ordering even more wine, and until dessert and coffee.
Brandy.
But that is exactly what Potter does; he stays and stays and talks and talks and talks, and orders drinks that he insists are to go on his tab, like some garrulous rich old uncle. “In all my skiing years I never saw ice like that,” he seems to have said several times.
“What you mean is that you
didn’t
see the ice,” chimes in Gordon. To Lavinia, it is not an especially funny remark, but the two men really break up over it. In fact Gordon seems to be having a wonderful time, and worse, he does everything to encourage Potter to stay with them.
At some point in all the ski talk, Lavinia catches a familiar name: George Wharton. A demon on skis, according to Potter. George Wharton, the beloved of foolish Megan, although Megan doesn’t seem to see him very often.
And so Lavinia asks, “George Wharton, really? Was he by himself up there?”
“Oh, you know George? Well, he was with
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