THE EDUCATION OF A QUEEN
683
antechambers of doom. I have two scotch-on-the-rocks that I
remember and then probably more. Suddenly I am insisting that
I
I
must see Joshua.
"Who?"
"My uncle."
"A-a-ah!"
My boy is getting too familiar: he questions my word. I sway
up
the bar-has anybody got enough gas coupons to drive me to
Cleveland?
"You bet I'll drive you to Cleveland, baby! Me and my buddy
here-NOW?"
Since I do not believe in mass fornication (princesses are
particular), I catch the ten o'clock bus alone.
I have a distant suspicion-all my suspicions are distant now
-that Joshua is a little displeased by my condition when he opens
I
his lath-and-plaster front door. But I also suspect that he is gen–
uinely delighted to see me. He takes off my shoes, makes me coffee,
and turns up the thermostat.
"Now," he
says,
"now, Betty Boop, what the devil have you
been up to?"
I gaze over the rim of my cup into his sweet, fond, innocent,
patient face, and I decide to give it to him straight. He's asking
for
it, isn't he? Betty Boop, indeed!
And I do. In spite of a certain drunken tendency to dump
all
my words into one pot, like a goulash, I begin with the ham–
mock,
progress through Uncle Sam's boys, and conclude chapters
later with the Church of the Holy Trinity. I get to liking the sound
of
my own voice and describe actors and scenes in rapturous, epic
catalogs. When I run out of true confessions, I make them up and
since, in spite of everything, I am not really so wicked as I like
to
believe, some of the most inspired episodes in my saga are
fictitious. Perhaps he understands this. I never really stop, how–
ever; I just drivel off to sleep in his armchair.
When I waken he forces more coffee on me, washes my face,
and bundles me into his car for the sixty-mile drive back to college.
It
must use up a month's gasoline ration; he can't have a very
high priority. Before letting me out at my dormitory, he takes
