THE PATRON
81
Spent, Mordecai fell back into the couch. "It's not hard, pro–
vided you crumble in a few pieces of white bread."
"A society that permits this deserves no better then they should
blow up the cities." Mr. Fisher's fingers clove the air, in a gesture
recalled from an old George Arliss movie. "From week to week we
watch you grow a little thinner, living as you do in that place without
hot water, where you can catch the worst drafts, if you will excuse
the expression, from the bathroom in the hall. But here is an up–
stairs and a downstairs, a furnished basement and two bathrooms–
do we need it, do we have small children? Therefore Mrs. Fisher and
myself ask that you move in with us, that you may do your work
in air and light, with nobody to bother you. (Of the food, I need
not speak.)"
Mordecai remained wordless, and twilight, streaming through the
slanted blinds, seemed to blunt his lips and nostrils, like wax over a
flame. "Is it so hard to imagine?" Mr. Fisher pleaded. "Let us sup–
pose for argument's sake that you were still in school, studying for
an accountant, a lawyer, an optometrist perhaps. A family of our
means would be more than happy, it would be our greatest pleasure
if we could help you, present you with a fine office. Should it make
a difference because you are a writer, because you are still a little
obscure?-though myself, I feel everything you tell me you wish to
say."
Paler than a plucked chicken, Mordecai pushed himself up and
took his stand between the potted ferns. "One thing tell me: is this
your proposal, or you Henrietta-is this the first step to the book
clubs, to the apartment with parquet floors, the children who will
enter unbidden to my writing chamber?"
He broke in, Mr. Fisher, before Henrietta's face could fully
adjust itself for the tears. "She knew nothing, believe me, we were
afraid to ask her...."
"Then if you allow me, I wish to speak with her alone."
Mr. and Mrs. Fisher went slowly to the kitchen, sliding together
the double doors of the living room. From the depths of the enormous
percolator Mrs. Fisher filled two water glasses with coffee, which
they sipped at the porcelain table, staring out to study the Parkway
that presented its winter aspect below, with the snow lying heavy
against the new grass and the overhead fixtures ruddying the squat
stoops of the two-family houses.
