“I think she is,” he agreed gently.
“She's the gracefulest woman in that ballroom. She dances like a girl of sixteen.”
“Most girls of sixteen,” said George, “are bum dancers. Anyhow, I wouldn't dance with one unless I had to.”
“Well, you'd better dance with your mother! I never saw anybody lovelier. How wonderfully they dance together!”
“Who?”
“Your mother and—and the queer-looking duck,” said Lucy. “I'm going to dance with him pretty soon.”
“I don't care—so long as you don't give him one of the numbers that belong to me.”
“I'll try to remember,” she said, and thoughtfully lifted to her face the bouquet of violets and lilies, a gesture which George noted without approval.
“Look here! Who sent you those flowers you keep makin' such a fuss over?”
“He did.”
“Who's 'he'?”
“The queer-looking duck.”
George feared no such rival; he laughed loudly. “I s'pose he's some old widower!” he said, the object thus described seeming ignominious enough to a person of eighteen, without additional characterization. “Some old widower!”
Lucy became serious at once. “Yes, he is a widower,” she said. “I ought to have told you before; he's my father.”
George stopped laughing abruptly. “Well, that's a horse on me. If I'd known he was your father, of course I wouldn't have made fun of him. I'm sorry.”
“Nobody could make fun of him,” she said quietly.
“Why couldn't they?”
“It wouldn't make him funny: it would only make themselves silly.”
Upon this, George had a gleam of intelligence. “Well, I'm not going to make myself silly any more, then; I don't want to take chances like that with you. But I thought he was the Sharon girls' uncle. He came with them—”
“Yes,” she said, “I'm always late to everything: I wouldn't let them wait for me. We're visiting the Sharons.”
“About time I knew that! You forget my being so fresh about your father, will you? Of course he's a distinguished looking man, in a way.”
Lucy was still serious. “In a way?'” she repeated. “You mean, not in your way, don't you?”
George was perplexed. “How do you mean: not in my way?”
“People pretty often say 'in a way' and 'rather distinguished looking,' or 'rather' so-and-so, or 'rather' anything, to show that they're superior don't they? In New York last month I overheard a climber sort of woman speaking of me as 'little Miss Morgan,' but she didn't mean my height; she meant that she was important. Her husband spoke of a friend of mine as 'little Mr. Pembroke' and 'little Mr. Pembroke' is six-feet-three. This husband and wife were really so terribly unimportant that the only way they knew to pretend to be important was calling people 'little' Miss or Mister so-and-so. It's a kind of snob slang, I think. Of course people don't always say 'rather' or 'in a way' to be superior.”
“I should say not! I use both of 'em a great deal myself,” said George. “One thing I don't see though: What's the use of a man being six-feet-three? Men that size can't handle themselves as well as a man about five-feet-eleven and a half can. Those long, gangling men, they're nearly always too kind of wormy to be any good in athletics, and they're so awkward they keep falling over chairs or—”
“Mr. Pembroke is in the army,” said Lucy primly. “He's extraordinarily graceful.”
“In the army? Oh, I suppose he's some old friend of your father's.”
“They got on very well,” she said, “after I introduced them.”
George was a straightforward soul, at least. “See here!” he said. “Are you engaged to anybody?”
“No.”
Not wholly mollified, he shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to know a good many people! Do you live in New York?”
“No. We don't live anywhere.”
“What you mean: you don't live anywhere?”
“We've lived all over,” she answered. “Papa used to live here in this town, but that was before I was born.”
“What do you keep moving around so for? Is he a promoter?”
“No. He's an inventor.”
“What's he invented?”
“Just lately,” said Lucy, “he's been working on a new kind of horseless carriage.”
“Well, I'm sorry for him,” George said, in no unkindly spirit. “Those things are never going to amount to anything. People aren't going to spend their lives lying on their backs in the road and letting grease drip in their faces. Horseless carriages are pretty much a failure, and your father better not waste his time on 'em.”
“Papa'd be so grateful,” she returned, “if he could have your advice.”
Instantly George's face became flushed. “I don't know that I've done anything to be insulted for!” he said. “I don't see that what I said was particularly fresh.”
“No, indeed!”
“Then what do you—”
She laughed gaily. “I don't! And I don't mind your being such a lofty person at all. I think it's ever so interesting—but papa's a great man!”
“Is he?” George decided to be good-natured “Well, let us hope so. I hope so, I'm sure.”
Looking at him keenly, she saw that the magnificent youth was incredibly sincere in this bit of graciousness. He spoke as a tolerant, elderly statesman might speak of a promising young politician; and with her eyes still upon him, Lucy shook her head in gentle wonder. “I'm just beginning to understand,” she said.
“Understand what?”
“What it means to be a real Amberson in this town. Papa told me something about it before we came, but I see he didn't say half enough!”
George superbly took this all for tribute. “Did your father say he knew the family before he left here?”
“Yes. I believe he was particularly a friend of your Uncle George; and he didn't say so, but I imagine he must have known your mother very well, too. He wasn't an inventor then; he was a young lawyer. The town was smaller in those days, and I believe he was quite well known.”
“I dare say. I've no doubt the family are all very glad to see him back, especially if they used to have him at the house a good deal, as he told you.”
“I don't think he meant to boast of it,” she said: “He spoke of it quite calmly.”
George stared at her for a moment in perplexity, then perceiving that her intention was satirical, “Girls really ought to go to a man's college,” he said—“just a month or two, anyhow; It'd take some of the freshness out of 'em!”
“I can't believe it,” she retorted, as her partner for the next dance arrived. “It would only make them a little politer on the surface—they'd be really just as awful as ever, after you got to know them a few minutes.”
“What do you mean: 'after you got to know them a—'”
She was departing to the dance. “Janie and Mary Sharon told me all about what sort of a little boy you were,” she said, over her shoulder. “You must think it out!” She took wing away on the