The Collected Stories of Louis Auchincloss Read Free Page A

attributed to them, a refusal that Mrs. Lane felt to be indigenous to the stratum of American life that she had abandoned for Paris, irritated her almost beyond endurance.
    â€œMy father was not an ‘old dear,’ Mary,” she said in a rather metallic tone. “He was a very intellectual and a very strange man. He was never really happy until they made him a judge, and he could sit on a bench, huddled in his black robes, and look out at the world.”
    â€œYou have such a peculiar way of looking at things, Lila,” Mrs. Spreddon retorted. “Judge Spreddon was a great man. Certainly, I never knew a man who was more loved.”
    Mrs. Lane inhaled deeply. “Maybe Maud’s daughters-in-law will say the same about her.”
    â€œMaybe they will,” Mrs. Spreddon agreed. “If she ever has any.”
    Mr. Spreddon worried even more than his wife, but he knew better than to expose himself to the chilly wind of his sister’s skepticism. When he sought consolation it was in the sympathetic male atmosphere of his downtown world where he could always be sure of a friendly indifference and an easy optimism to reassure his troubled mind. Mr. Spreddon at fifty-five showed no outward symptoms of any inner insecurity. He was a big man of magnificent health, with gray hair and red cheeks, who had succeeded to his father’s position in the great law firm that bore his name. Not that this had been an easy or automatic step, or that it could have been accomplished without the distinct ability that Mr. Spreddon possessed. He was an affable and practical-minded man whose advice was listened to with respect at directors’ meetings and by the widows and daughters of the rich. But it was true, nevertheless, that beneath the joviality of his exterior he carried a variegated sense of guilt: guilt at having succeeded a father whose name was so famous in the annals of law, guilt at having leisure in an office where people worked so hard, guilt at being a successful lawyer without having ever argued a case, guilt at suspecting that the sound practical judgment for which he was reputed was, in the last analysis, nothing but a miscellany of easy generalities. It may have been for this reason that he took so paternal an interest in the younger lawyers in his office, particularly in Halsted Nicholas, the prodigy from Yonkers who had started as an office boy and had been Judge Spreddon’s law clerk when the old man died.
    â€œI tell you she’s all right, Bill,” Halsted said with his usual familiarity when Mr. Spreddon came into the little office where he was working surrounded by piles of photostatic exhibits, both feet on is desk. “You ought to be proud of her. She’s got spunk, that girl.”
    â€œYou’ll admit it’s an unusual way to show it.”
    â€œAll the better. Originality should be watered.” Halsted swung around in his chair to face the large ascetic features of the late Judge Spreddon in the photograph over his bookcase. “The old boy would have approved,” he added irreverently. “He always said it was hate that made the world go round.”
    Mr. Spreddon never quite knew what to make of Halsted’s remarks. “But I don’t want her to be abnormal,” he said. “If she goes on hating everybody, how is she ever going to grow up and get married?”
    â€œOh, she’ll get married,” Halsted said.
    â€œWell, sure. If she changes.”
    â€œEven if she doesn’t.”
    Mr. Spreddon stared. “Now, what makes you say that?” he demanded.
    â€œTake me. I’ll marry her.”
    Mr. Spreddon laughed. “You’ll have to wait quite a bit, my boy,” he said. “She’s only thirteen.”

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    Mr. and Mrs. Spreddon were not content with the passive view recommended by Mrs. Lane and Halsted Nicholas. Conscientious and loving parents as they were, they recognized that what ailed Maud was