‘ . . . as I say, it doesn’t happen to BE true, because there’s about six hard-up school teachers or government clerks among the Staybridge gang to one rich one . . .’

‘If you PLEASE!’

‘ . . . but what of it? We’re dealing with today. You’re the kind of snob, Putnam, that thinks a manufacturer is socially ‘way ahead of a wholesaler, and a wholesaler has got it all over a retailer, God knows why, and . . . And it happens that you aren’t even a strictly kosher manufacturer — you own in pretty heavily, as a sleeping partner, on the Conqueror Company, which is engaged in peddling cars, same as I am. Oh, Putnam, how could you, my boy!’

Fred had seated himself again, very red; the pearl-pale Putnam had risen, even redder, and was shrieking, ‘There happens also to be a question of breeding and manners!’

Quite gallantly Putnam took the risk of turning his back to Fred the Terrier and walking out.

Fred was brooding, ‘And now, by golly, I’ll be doggoned if I won’t go and make those doggoned young idiots go and get married even if they doggoned don’t want to! . . . Huh? No, I’m busy. Have Paul Popple talk to him.’

Later: ‘But the little rat was right about one thing. Annabel certainly has got better manners than my brat, and I suspect she can read and write.’

Much later: ‘What can a parent, that isn’t more’n average bright himself, do for his children? Maybe leave them alone? If I only knew! . . . Maybe the poor, conceited little flute player loves his daughter, in his fool fashion. Wants to keep her . . . He’s lost her. Do we always lose the people we love; only keep the people that we don’t plague with loving? I guess those are the real wars — men against women — parents against children — and not all this monkey business in Europe. I’d like an armistice! I’d like to go off someplace to a valley where there’s peace.’

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Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:57

The Prodigal Parents, by Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 19

The first fireflies of the summer beckoned in the garden beside the Staybridge Mansion. There was a smell of rain-wet rhododendrons, and beside the white gate a girl in a white cloak was waiting.

With muted engine, the car crept through the little street of maples and apple trees, stopped with the engine throbbing, and the horn, thrice sounded, was only a whimpering murmur. Annabel rustled through the gate. The right-hand front door was held open for her, and she crept into the car in silence; in silence they slipped away.

Annabel could see that Howard was driving. In the back seat were Sara, Eugene Silga and her brother, Guy.

‘Got the licence in my pocket,’ muttered Howard.

She patted his arm nervously.

‘You’re of age, anyway, aren’t you, Bell?’ said Sara, leaning forward, hands on the back of the front seat.