She was inordinately interested in what I told her of Mr. Garvin because, through my desire to hasten from the Jewish question, I exaggerated the scraps of information I had gathered about him through his conversation with Preis, and told her that he was a student of Japanese even though I had been corrected by the boy himself. “What a small world we have,” said Miss Pride, beaming with pleasure. “To think that one of your first acquaintances in Boston should have the same inspiration that my father had. Perhaps he would like to look over the books here. Is he a presentable young man or is he one of those brainy people, like Hope’s artists who don’t wash very well?” On the contrary, I told her, Garvin was, if anything, overwashed. His tanned, freshly shaved face had been as clean as a baby’s; his dark blue suit and his white shirt, his blue cashmere tie and matching socks were so fresh from the cleaner and the laundress that he could have posed, with no subsequent touching-up on the part of the photographer, for an advertisement of Miss Pride’s White Cloud soap. “And what is his background?” she asked me next, but I could not satisfy her. “Berthe will know, I suppose. We might ask him to dine with us some evening. I don’t want to deprive you of all society, you know, but at the same time I don’t want you to drift away from me.”

“Oh, I can assure you,” I laughed, “that Mr. Garvin and I didn’t strike up an acquaintance at all.” Actually I did hope that I would see the young man again but only because I was inquisitive to know what sort of friends Nathan had.

“The Countess gave me a surprising piece of news. She says you’re sharp as a tack on the subject of French literature. How in the world did you come by that?”

“She’s quite mistaken. I know nothing about it . . . I . . .”

Miss Pride rolled her eyes in a way that was at once so omniscient and so repulsive that I had to look away from her. “You’re quite right, my dear child, most of us are credulous geese. To be candid with you, I’d rather have you like this than have you be a real but bumptious intellectual.”

“Like this?” I repeated, feeling that I ought to defend myself.

“I said most of us are credulous geese. But I know what you know. All I ask is that you don’t take your game seriously.”

I saw nothing for it but to confess that I had, indeed, been bluffing at the Countess’ and to my relief she dropped the subject.

“Am I right in assuming that this restlessness of yours—this wanting to go for a walk in the middle of the night—is just that same homesickness we were talking about earlier? And that you’re not growing tired of your life here?”