372
PARTISAN
REVIEW
.wristwatch. Her white gloved forefinger and thumb pushed the glove
of the other hand from a white silk cuff (a dainty yet full cuff extend–
ing below the blue sleeve of her coat suit) and she was bending
cautiously over the big round box to get a view of the dial. I climbed
to my knees and myself peered over to the face of that little white
gold ornament. When I saw that the tiny black hands actually told
the correct time of day I experienced a breath-taking amazement.
But I raised my eyes to Aunt Grace's face, and no longer did
it seem that the watch was the cause of my amazement. I felt myself
growing timid in her presence, for she had become a stranger to me.
The hatbox, the watch, the white gloves, the absurdly full silk cuffs,
the blue linen suit on which she had labored so long and so painstak–
ingly, and even the tiny brown bows on her white shoes all took on a
significance. The watch seemed to have been but a key. And all of
those things that had once indicated that Aunt Grace was one sort
of person now indicated that she was quite another sort. She was not
the utterly useless if wonderfully ornamental member of the family.
In the solid blueness of her eyes I was surely on the verge of finding
some marvellous function for her personality (I would have said my
mother's function was Motherhood and my father's, Fatherhood.).
I was about to find the reason why there should be one member of
a boy's family who was wise or old-fashioned enough to sit with
Mother and Father and discuss the things they could not abide in
Virginia Ann and yet who was foolish or newfangled enough to enjoy
the very things that Virginia Ann called "the last word.'l But it was
precisely then that the cab stopped before the entrance to the dirty
limestone railroad depot, and Uncle Bazil stepped up and opened the
automobile door.
I hopped out onto the sidewalk and Brother after me, he taking
the small suitcase and I the cardboard hatbox which I held by a
heavy black ribbon that was tied in a bow knot above the side of the
box. Aunt Grace followed us straightening her straw hat with her left
hand, clasping her white purse under her right arm. She and Uncle
Bazil began to talk as though they were strangers making pleasant
conversation. It seemed that Aunt Grace did not cease her chatter
and her excited laughter from the time she left the taxi until we saw
her on the train.
Uncle Bazil's very presence was itself shocking, but I was even
more astonished to find him unchanged in appearance. Actually I
must have recognized him by his smart attire - his plaid coat and
white trousers - for it had been fully a year since he had been to
our house. I had expected dissipation to show not only in his face but
