Sincerely, Willis Wayde Read Free Page B

it’s worth it,” his mother said. “But can we afford twenty-five dollars a week?”
    â€œNo,” his father said, “twenty-five a month.”
    Willis heard his mother catch her breath.
    â€œWhy is he only asking that? I don’t see …” Mrs. Wayde began, and her voice ended on a higher note.
    â€œIt’s all right, Cynthia,” his father said.
    â€œGosh,” Willis said. “Mr. Harcourt must have an awful lot of money, Pa.”
    â€œThat’s no way to talk,” Mrs. Wayde told him. “You mean he must be a very kind man, Willis, who thinks a lot of your father—unless there’s something we don’t know about.”
    â€œThere isn’t anything,” Alfred Wayde said.
    â€œWell, I certainly hope not,” Mrs. Wayde said, and she sighed. “I’ll start things in the kitchen, and, Willis, you take a bath and put on a clean shirt, and be sure to wash the tub. Why, everything’s all dusted.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Alfred Wayde said. “Two women were here all last week.”
    â€œI just can’t believe it,” Mrs. Wayde said, “I really can’t.”
    Past experience was no guide to what confronted Willis then. He was learning at the age of fifteen that wealth beyond a certain point always created its own small world of unreality. He was caught in such a world that afternoon, one from which he never wholly escaped.
    Just as Willis was looking over the bedroom that would be his for a long while but that would always seem to belong to someone else, he heard a knock on the front door.
    â€œI’ll go,” he heard his father say.
    â€œWhat was it, Al?” he heard his mother call after the front door had closed.
    â€œIt’s a note from Harcourt,” he heard his father answer. “He wants us all to come to dinner,” and then he heard his father laugh, “and we don’t have to bother to dress. He knows I don’t own an open-front suit. I told him so.”
    â€œOh, Alf,” his mother called, “you shouldn’t have told him that. Can’t we excuse ourselves? All my good clothes are in the trunk.”
    â€œWe’ve got to go, Cynthia,” his father said, “and anyway it means we don’t cook supper.”
    You never do forget first times, particularly first times when you were young. The sun was setting when they walked across the lawn to the big house. The birds were singing their last songs in the oak and beech trees, and there was a steady late-summer noise of crickets in the grass. His father was telling them not to act as though they were going to church. They had all eaten at big hotels in Chicago and San Francisco, and they knew what headwaiters were like, and Selwyn, who was Mr. Harcourt’s butler, was like a headwaiter. Besides they had been to lunch at the Cashes’ in Denver, and he would bet that Harrod Cash had more cash than Mr. Harcourt.
    â€œNow, Willis,” his mother said. “It’s important for your father that you make a nice impression.”
    â€œWillis will be all right,” his father said. “Just take it easy, Cynthia.”
    â€œNow, Willis,” his mother said. “Remember what I told you about the knives and forks. Begin with the outside ones, even if they don’t look right, and don’t be nervous, Willis.”
    â€œDon’t worry him, Cynthia,” his father said. “You’ll feel at home in a minute.”
    â€œOh, Alf,” his mother said, “you feel at home anywhere because you never notice anything, and there’s an awful lot to notice.”
    There really was too much for anyone to notice all at once. The front veranda with its gray Gothic pillars was cool and shadowy. They only waited a second or two after ringing before the heavy front door opened. The hall with its walnut woodwork was already dusky, but a lighted chandelier gave Willis a glimpse of