Washington Square

“It doesn’t matter,” he said; “it’s only for three or four years.  At the end of three or four years we’ll move.  That’s the way to live in New York—to move every three or four years.  Then you always get the last thing.  It’s because the city’s growing so quick—you’ve got to keep up with it.  It’s going straight up town—that’s where New York’s going.  If I wasn’t afraid Marian would be lonely, I’d go up there—right up to the top—and wait for it.  Only have to wait ten years—they’d all come up after you.  But Marian says she wants some neighbours—she doesn’t want to be a pioneer.  She says that if she’s got to be the first settler she had better go out to Minnesota.  I guess we’ll move up little by little; when we get tired of one street we’ll go higher.  So you see we’ll always have a new house; it’s a great advantage to have a new house; you get all the latest improvements.  They invent everything all over again about every five years, and it’s a great thing to keep up with the new things.  I always try and keep up with the new things of every kind.  Don’t you think that’s a good motto for a young couple—to keep ‘going higher’?  That’s the name of that piece of poetry—what do they call it?—Excelsior!”

Catherine bestowed on her junior visitor only just enough attention to feel that this was not the way Mr. Morris Townsend had talked the other night, or that he was talking now to her fortunate aunt.  But suddenly his aspiring kinsman became more interesting.  He seemed to have become conscious that she was affected by his companion’s presence, and he thought it proper to explain it.

“My cousin asked me to bring him, or I shouldn’t have taken the liberty.  He seemed to want very much to come; you know he’s awfully sociable.  I told him I wanted to ask you first, but he said Mrs. Penniman had invited him.  He isn’t particular what he says when he wants to come somewhere!  But Mrs. Penniman seems to think it’s all right.”

“We are very glad to see him,” said Catherine.  And she wished to talk more about him; but she hardly knew what to say.  “I never saw him before,” she went on presently.

Arthur Townsend stared.

“Why, he told me he talked with you for over half an hour the other night.”

“I mean before the other night.  That was the first time.”

“Oh, he has been away from New York—he has been all round the world.  He doesn’t know many people here, but he’s very sociable, and he wants to know every one.”

“Every one?” said Catherine.

“Well, I mean all the good ones.  All the pretty young ladies—like Mrs. Penniman!” and Arthur Townsend gave a private laugh.

“My aunt likes him very much,” said Catherine.

“Most people like him—he’s so brilliant.”

“He’s more like a foreigner,” Catherine suggested.

“Well, I never knew a foreigner!” said young Townsend, in a tone which seemed to indicate that his ignorance had been optional.

“Neither have I,” Catherine confessed, with more humility.  “They say they are generally brilliant,” she added vaguely.

“Well, the people of this city are clever enough for me.  I know some of them that think they are too clever for me; but they ain’t!”

“I suppose you can’t be too clever,” said Catherine, still with humility.

“I don’t know.  I know some people that call my cousin too clever.”

Catherine listened to this statement with extreme interest, and a feeling that if Morris Townsend had a fault it would naturally be that one.  But she did not commit herself, and in a moment she asked: “Now that he has come back, will he stay here always?”

“Ah,” said Arthur, “if he can get something to do.”

“Something to do?”

“Some place or other; some business.”

“Hasn’t he got any?” said Catherine, who had never heard of a young man—of the upper class—in this situation.

“No; he’s looking round.  But he can’t find anything.”

“I am very sorry,” Catherine permitted herself to observe.

“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” said young Townsend.  “He takes it easy—he isn’t in a hurry.  He is very particular.”

Catherine thought he naturally would be, and gave herself up for some moments to the contemplation of this idea, in several of its bearings.

“Won’t his father take him into his business—his office?” she at last inquired.

“He hasn’t got any father—he has only got a sister.  Your sister can’t help you much.”

It seemed to Catherine that if she were his sister she would disprove this axiom.  “Is she—is she pleasant?” she asked in a moment.

“I don’t know—I believe she’s very respectable,” said young Townsend.  And then he looked across to his cousin and began to laugh.  “Look here, we are talking about you,” he added.

Morris Townsend paused in his conversation with Mrs. Penniman, and stared, with a little smile.  Then he got up, as if he were going.

“As far as you are concerned, I can’t return the compliment,” he said to Catherine’s companion.  “But as regards Miss Sloper, it’s another affair.”