HOTEL BARSTOW
257
three feet away from her and began to brush the fallen fronds into
a dust-pan. I kept my eye on her and presently I saw a frown invade
her high forehead. I did not know if she had come to a word she did
not understand or if she were annoyed with the chatter that came
thr.ough the screen door. Evidently the old ladies were now scrutiniz–
ing the fashionable young people on the beach who had drifted down
from the smarter hotels and who were clad in bathing costumes that
exposed long, sun-browned legs. "I just don't know," said someone,
"I just don't know. Are we advancing? Or are we going back to
paganism? I don't say it's immoral to expose the legs to the public
eye: I say it's not fastidious. Why, our chambermaid, Mrs. Mar–
burg, has more modesty than those young ladies out there who either
have come out or will come out at the Chilton Club."
Even at this mention of my mother and although she must have
known that I was beside her, Miss Pride did not look at me. Her
frown deepened; reluctantly she closed her magazine just as the only
male guest of the Hotel, Mr. Brock, slipped quietly through two
pots of fern, carrying with him a folding chair which he set down
beside hers. What impressed me in that moment was that the frown,
which had lasted two or three minutes, showed that she had known
of his approach long before I either heard or saw him.
"Good morning! I hope I am not disturbing you at your devo–
tions?" The chuckle following
his
remark was not returned and Miss
Pride only said, "Good morning."
Mr. Brock was a soft-spoken and scholarly old man who, al–
though he had come from New York, called himself "a professional
Bostonian." He was the victim of a delusion which he propounded,
whenever he had the opportunity, to myself, my mother, the Mexican
gardener, Gonzales, to Mr. Hagethorn, to the waitresses. He believed
that of all languages, only the English was capable of vulgarity, and
he claimed that bad American books were transformed by translation
into promising, if not brilliant, prose. He had made a collection of
such translation, having E. P. Roe, for example, rendered into French
and the
EL~ie
Dinsmore books into Spanish. He had given my father
his copy of
Riders of the Purple Sage
and my father, although he
was totally indifferent to Mr. Brock's thesis, so thoroughly enjoyed
the book for its adventure that the old man danced for joy, sure that
this was the proof of the pudding.
Now he produced a leather-bound book from his brief case and
handing it to Miss Pride, said, "I sought you out to show you my
latest find. This is
Bob, Son of Battle
in German or
Bob der graue
Hund von Kenmuir
and it is enchanting. Would you care to read it?"
