Free The Incredible Charlie Carewe by Mary. Astor

bed early.”
    “Up at dawn, I suppose—the bass are biting, or is it perch?”
    Brian ignored her casually. “What did you think of the new man, Gregson?”
    Jane frowned. Gregson? Which was Gregson? Surely he meant Carewe, but play it safe. “Oh, fine, I guess—they all seem pretty much alike to me—like babies behind a hospital nursery window.”
    Brian laughed heartily. “And they think that Mrs. Dexter is just the most wonderful, the most sympathetic, the most charming, etc., etc. You take the place of all their mothers, except that you’re young and beautiful; what more could a boy ask? I’d be good and jealous if I didn’t know you had a peculiar aversion to the callow male.”
    She was lighting the gas in the fake log in the fireplace. “I’ve passed the time of life where I can yell my lungs out—‘Team! Team!’ A chrysanthemum is something to put in a vase, not wave like a banner. I like good talk. I like you. In fact I’m a very discriminating person!”
    He put his arms around her as she stood up. “And I take that as the greatest flattery.”
    She pressed her face into the wool of his cardigan. “You sure you’re going fishing so early?”
    Brian pulled her tighter to him. “At the moment, it does seem ridiculous—you smell so good.” Firmly, playfully he disengaged her arms from around his neck. “Get away, get away, woman. I’ve got a whole slew of papers to correct—I’ll be lucky if I stay awake long enough to finish them.”
    At his study door he paused. “What did you think of Glamor Boy?”
    “Who?”
    “Carewe—the Greek god with a brain.”
    “Oh yes—Charles Carewe. A brain, you say?”
    “Definitely—the real ‘no trouble’ student. Funny guy, though. I can’t seem to ‘place’ him, if you know what I mean. You know how I get to know the men, know how much pressure they can take, how much help certain ones will need and so on. For three years, now, Carewe has sat, smack in the middle of the classroom, and I go for days trying to remember whether he attended or not. Never says a word, hands in beautiful papers, doesn’t mix much. Funny guy. I thought maybe you could chip some of the ice off him—see what makes him tick.”
    Jane promised herself, “I will, oh, I will indeed!”
    A block away Charlie was whistling a blues tune in march time, punctuating the rhythm by scuffing his feet through the freshly fallen leaves. He hunched his collar up around his neck; there was a bite in the air and a hint of rain. He reviewed the afternoon as having been most successful. No doubt the old boy, Dexter, liked him. He’d invited him to his house, hadn’t he, and he’d had to do none of the sucking up the other fellows did to wangle the invitation. This year he was trying out the “quiet one” attitude. It was most profitable. It seemed to attract attention even more effectively than being quick on the uptake. That little moment of delay in answering a question seemed to tell the questioner that you thought that what he had asked contained more importance than was apparent, and you needed a minute to study it. Then, when you answered, and if you were wrong, you could offer a smiling look of helplessness that said, “You’re so wonderfully profound—do you expect poor little me to give a satisfactory answer? I can but flounder in confusion!” It worked in all kinds of ways. Like not talking when everybody else was jabbering. Like sitting still when everybody was fidgeting or walking around. You became a kind of magnet. And being a magnet was fun.
    He had heard of but paid little attention to the “Friday teas” at Dexter’s house. They sounded like a bore, and usually he had been anxious to get his gear together and get home for a weekend of late sleeping and being waited on and good food. But Jerry Somborn had dropped the information that the attraction at the Dexter home was mainly his luscious wife. “Look, but don’t touch, sonny boy—you’ll get your hands