Bay Husack, for example, who was almost ten years her senior. His attitude toward Louise Husack was that of an adult toward a not very bright little girl. Toward his father and his father’s associates he displayed a quizzical contempt. Chris, sensing this, criticized it in the form of a generalization.

“I don’t see how we can call ourselves civilized. Civilized countries respect and revere old people. Look at the Chinese and the East Indians.”

“Yes, look at them!” Bay jibed. “They’re in fine shape. They’re so civilized that only a few million die of starvation every year. And I’ve always heard that the Eskimos take their old people out on the ice and let them sit there until they freeze to death.”

Her resentment of this was, Bay thought, out of all proportion.

“Perhaps, years ago, when they needed what food there was to keep the young people alive. The hunters and the workers. Your ancestors, hundreds of years ago, probably hit the old people over the head with a club. Ross Guildenstern’s grandmother is treated with the most tender respect.”

“Ross what!”

“It doesn’t matter. In Alaska the old pioneers are respected. They’re considered valuable citizens. The three most important and beautiful people in Alaska are over seventy.”

“You’re like Queen Victoria, brought up by a bunch of gray-beards. So far as I can figure it these two grandfathers of yours you’re always quoting and this Juliet’s Nurse—Birdie or Bridget or whatever it is—anyway, you’re all in love with one another, and each of you is in love with Alaska. I never saw such a bunch of Oedipus wrecks. You’re out of stir now, you’re living alone, doesn’t that put ideas into your head?”

“There are about fifty other girls living in my building. Why don’t you try ringing doorbells?”

“They don’t go around telling everybody about the toothsome sourdough pancakes they make for breakfast. From an old family wad of dough. It sounds pretty repulsive, but I’ll come—if you’ll let me come early enough before breakfast. About midnight, say, the night before.”

“Do come. And bring your fiancée, Miss Drake.”

“She isn’t my fiancée.”

“She told me she was.”

“That’s odd. I thought you were.”

“You talk like Louis the Sixteenth.”

“You’re going to be an old maid if you’re not careful—you and your frozen north ways. Don’t say Uncle Bay didn’t warn you.”

“Bitter boy, you hate the world.”

“Maybe I do.”

“But why? It’s wonderful!”

“You tell me all about it some time.”

“I can tell you now.”

“All right. Let’s sit down here, real cosy, and I’ll put an arm around you, and you talk and I’ll listen.”

“You’re afraid to listen. You’re afraid to talk.”

“I know it. But I’ll listen to you. There now. Isn’t that comfortable? Now talk. Or don’t talk. It’s soothing just sitting here like this. Maybe soothing isn’t the word, exactly.”

She had been asked to dinner at the Husacks’. She often came to dinner at the Husacks’. Just the family, Louise Husack said. You’re like one of the family, Christine dear. I wish you’d come to dinner every night. We all love having you—Bay and all of us.