He knew it was due to this worldliness, even more than to the fact that his wife had a little money of her own, that she and his daughters had never been drab and a little pathetic, like some of the faculty women.
They hadn’t much, but they were never absurd. They never made shabby compromises. If they couldn’t get the right thing, they went without.
Usually they had the right thing, and it got paid for, somehow. He couldn’t say they were extravagant; the old house had been funny and bare enough, but there were no ugly things in it.
Since Rosamond’s marriage to Marsellus, both she and her mother had changed bewilderingly in some respects—changed and hardened.
But Louie, who had done the damage, had not damaged himself. It was to him that one appealed—for Augusta, for Professor Crane, for the bruised feelings of people less fortunate. It was less because of Louie than for any other reason that he would refuse this princely invitation.
He could get out of it without hurting anybody—though he knew Louie would be sorry. He could simply insist that he must work, and that he couldn’t work away from his old study.
There were some advantages about being a writer of histories. The desk was a shelter one could hide behind, it was a hole one could creep into.
When St. Peter told his family of his decision, Louie was disappointed; but he was respectful, and readily conceded that the Professor’s first duty was to his work.
Rosamond was incredulous and piqued; she didn’t see how he could be so ungenerous as to spoil an arrangement which would give pleasure to everyone concerned.
His wife looked at him with thoughtful disbelief.