That first night back east—when Caroline had cut him off in the middle of one of his old stories—even as his prideful self felt slighted, he knew that she was perfectly right. She was perfectly right to cut him off. Not because his stories were improper for the table, or for the child. But because they were an old man’s stories. They were sorry and tired and over-told.

The vanity of vanities.

For there is no remembrance of former things. And neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come by those that shall come after.

•

—IS IT ANY GOOD?

As the two women from St. Louis were paying the waiter, the young lady with the scar had looked up from her book to ask for her check, and the woman in the blue hat had made use of the opening.

—The book you’re reading, she said. Is it any good?

From her tone, you could tell that she didn’t expect it to be.

The young lady studied her for a moment. Then she put out her cigarette, smiled like a Southern belle, and replied with the accent to match.

—Oh, it’s all right, I reckon . . . It’s got all manner of nouns and verbs. And adjectives too! But it’s just not true to life. Why, when the hero is slipped a Mickey Finn in chapter twenty-two, he topples over in sixty seconds flat. But in chapter fourteen, when he gets shot in the belly, he makes it halfway across town on foot. And as for ess ee ex: Suffice it to say, there’s barely a mention.

She shook her head in a manner that presumed mutual disbelief.

—Now, I’m all in favor of poetic license; but a peck on the cheek in this day and age simply tries one’s reason.

—Oh! said the women in their hats.

And as they bristled down the aisle, the young lady with the scar licked her finger and turned the page.

For a few minutes, she read idly on; but then something in the book seemed to give her pause. She looked out the window. Then, after searching through a small purse, she asked if she could borrow a pen or pencil. He took the pencil from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She flipped to the back of the book and jotted something down. Then she returned the pencil looking satisfied with her efforts.

The dining car was nearly empty now. A few tables away, a mother scolded her freckle-faced boy for playing soldiers with the salts and peppers. At the table in the corner, a studious young man invested himself in a stack of books. While outside, the telegraph wire ran on and on and on.

—You’re right about a Mickey, he found himself saying. On a man of average weight even a five-star Mickey Finn would need ten minutes to do its work.