The Barrier... weston chambers Phillip tugged at the ends of his bow-tie. One must be careful of such details; a final elegancy of taste might be seen in an always stiffly straight bow-tie. One was careful with one's dress. Yes, no more than two colors in one's costume. Above all no florid socks. Was one particularly careful when one was in love? Love had come to Phillip in very peculiar circumstances. Not at all as he had planned. One chose one's women like one chose one's shirts. They must fit the occasion. Love was remote, at early middle age when one had made one's way, written one's books. Meantime, one chose one's women to fit the occasion. With this in mind, who could match Elinor in poise and dress, in respectability, acceptability; who better to hang on one's arm and stroll about the ballrooms of the smart events? Chosen as the ideal social partner, he had taken her for granted for a whole year, and then suddenly love had come to him. And in such peculiar circumstances. Phillip was wading a vulgar mossy-rocked stream, attempting to maintain his poise and hold his trousers above his knees at the same time. Of course, his trousers had come out second best. Elinor, dear girl, in an irresistible emergence of sophistication and domesticity insisted on a press. The sancitity of her father's summer lodge was invaded. Phillip shivered in the upstair's bedroom- -heard the clomp, clomp of the iron in the kitchen. Result: One trouser knife-edge, one young man in love. Oh, charming and just like oneself to do it that way, but it just wouldn't do. One had one's plans. But in his inevitable fashion Phillip had come to accept this sudden interruption of his carefully mapped future. The combined houri and muse who, in his dreams, was to have shared his later existence, faded, and in her place came a simple-hearted sorority girl. His plans were revamped; she assumed an angel's proportions. She was a catch-well-to-do family-a catch indeed. But how to tell her of his love, that was the problem. Such a chance for sentimentality. Sentimentality was one's worst enemy. Through the air-vent near his feet Phillip heard the scratch of a victrola needle. In the parlor below Elinor would be playing his records. One of his? A Debussey? He waited, comb poised in mid-air. A clash of cymbals fell in upon his ears. Jazz? For a moment he felt an unreasoning despair. How to teach her the finer things? But, he shook himself, love was in his bosom; love could do anything. He seized his leather-bound Swinburne from the desk, crossed the room. With his eyes on the wall so he would not see it, he stooped and fumbled for his father's picture, turned it right side out and, avoiding any sight of it, felt for the nail above the bed from which it customarily hung. Always after entering the room, Phillip would take the picture down and turn it to the wall. Any mention of his father was almost enough to make him ill, and as for a likeness, positively revolting. Outside in the upper hall he straightened his jacket and was about to take the stairs when the door of his mother's room opened. She stepped hesitatingly forward, her eyes opened wide, the pupils dilated in simple wonderment as always when she was concerned about something. The ridiculous flower-printed dress, how excruciatingly awful it was to Phillip, hung shapelessly from the bony shoulders to the ankles. "Phil," she said, her arm raised as if to touch him, "Phil, I didn't offend you did I, Phil? I didn't offend you when I told Mrs. Wadsworth about the blue children, did I? I didn't mean to hurt you, Phil." The voice was whining; the pupils dilated even further. For a moment he was flooded with an unreasonable pity. Perhaps he should reach out and put his arms around her. But, no. Such a sentimentality wouldn't do. It just wouldn't do. "Of course not, mother," he replied. He spoke to her impatiently and placatingly as if she were a child. "It's just that my taking care of your cornflowers (Had he ever really called them 'blue children'?) that happened a long time ago. I'm grown up now. The Wadsworth's don't know about my childhood." "I didn't want to hurt you, Phillip," she repeated as if she hadn't heard him. "Oh, come now, mother. Everything's just fine," his voice curt and commanding. "Look now, you get lunch like a good Injun, and I'll be coming right back. I'm going to take Elinor up to see the Barrier." "The Barrier?" "Yes, the Barrier," he said, frowning impatiently. "You remember. The place up in the hills where I used to go in the summer to read." Already he had turned and taken the first stair. He tried to smile as he entered the parlor, hut the jazz was too much. Elinor, swaying and moving her feet about to the beat of the music, turned her slim body to greet him. "Why the frown?" she called above the music, mimicking him. "Oh, nothing," he said, unable to meet her eyes. "I just thought you'd be playing one of my good records. I had them sent ahead especially, you know." He turned to gray-haired Mr. Wadsworth on the corner divan. "I'm taking your fair daughter to see one of the local I Continued on pape 16) SIX "THE GOOD EARTH" weldon s. burnham SEVEN