‘Cal Tillery’s cousin, that’s who Howard is,’ thought Fred.

With the apricot brandy, a drink which Fred considered related to pink silk underwear and rose-tipped cigarettes, Howard had managed to bring off an entirely new victory. Apparently he was now with the Triumph–Houndtooth-Duplex agency, as assistant and future successor to Fred, and was making things not merely hum but yell.

‘You’ve certainly done a grand job, Dad, but there’s a lot of new ideas that would quadruple the racket. Pretty soon, I think, we could add television sales to our other junk, and say, I’ve got some real ideas about the kind of showroom we ought to have — knock the eyes out of every other dealer in town — place right on Chester Avenue, all black glass and mirrors and red leather upholstery, and maybe a private bar for the big shots, and we could keep open evenings in summer and have an orchestra.’

Fred saw, instantly, that so insane is the world that Howard’s hysterical plans for the Triumph agency might actually succeed. They really might ‘quadruple the racket’, and quadruple his work; and if that happened, he wanted to be out of it, hiding in a haystack.

He recalled that for more than thirty years he had been slapping almost unslappable backs, taking buyers to cafés when he had longed for his slippers, enduring more talk about the weather than there had been weather. He saw that it had been with the tension of a crusade that he had engaged himself in loving like a brother anybody who had $1100 for a car. He was suddenly and inexplicably weary. It would be a pleasure to refuse ever to sell anything else to anybody.

‘Certainly, Mr. Jones, we have five million television sets, 1943 model, on hand, and I wouldn’t sell you one for five million dollars! I don’t like your split infinitives!’

Fred heard himself saying, but not in the least believing, ‘You better get busy and learn something about motor engineering, Howard, if you’re going into my firm, because pretty soon I’m going to sell it and retire.’

The entire company, who had hardened into the affable boredom suitable to a birthday party, sat up.

‘You’re going . . .’

‘YOU’RE going . . .’

‘To retire?’

‘Nonsense!’

‘You?’

‘WHEN?’

Fred enjoyed it. He had not been so important in his family since he had bought his opera hat. It pleased his vanity to see that his reputation for Being Different was so solid that he had taken in all of them, except perhaps Hazel, and that even she was wondering a little.

‘And when would you pull this big hermit-and-monastery act?’ Dr. Kamerkink demanded.

‘One year from now.’

Howard bleated, ‘Dad! You couldn’t possibly! Whether I stick it out in college or not, I’ve got to get started, somehow, and you’re the only one that’ll help me!’

But it was Annabel’s eyes that most pleaded for Howard.

‘Good Lord, son, I expect to help you get started. But only started. I don’t expect to carry you for years and years, like a lot of parents are doing, nowadays. I guess that’s another demand the Youth Movement is making on Congress — let the old folks do it — penalize the folks that like to work by making ’em support the ones that don’t.’