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Updated: June 15, 2025
Ought to be shoved back in the oven; just one more minute would do it. Bloeckman squinted at his watch. "Time these girls were showing up ..." Anthony waited breathlessly; it came "... but then," with a widening smile, "you know how women are." The three young men nodded; Bloeckman looked casually about him, his eyes resting critically on the ceiling and then passing lower.
As the conversation continued in stilted commas, Anthony wondered that to him and Bloeckman both this girl had once been the most stimulating, the most tonic personality they had ever known and now the three sat like overoiled machines, without conflict, without fear, without elation, heavily enamelled little figures secure beyond enjoyment in a world where death and war, dull emotion and noble savagery were covering a continent with the smoke of terror.
But Anthony, understanding that Gloria's indifference was her strongest appeal, judged how futile this must have been. He wondered, often but quite casually, about Bloeckman finally he forgot him entirely.
Anthony's was to his grandfather; Gloria's was to Joseph Bloeckman. It was a triumph of lethargy. One day early in July Anthony, returned from an afternoon in New York, called up-stairs to Gloria. Receiving no answer he guessed she was asleep and so went into the pantry for one of the little sandwiches that were always prepared for them.
You'd think they might be glad to do a little favor for you." She looked at him contemptuously, but he took no notice. "Or how about your old friend Rachael or Constance Merriam?" "Constance Merriam's been dead a year, and I wouldn't ask Rachael." "Well, how about that gentleman who was so anxious to help you once that he could hardly restrain himself, Bloeckman?"
"I mean Mrs. Patch." "She out." Tana reassured him. "She be back five o'clock, she say." "Down in the village?" "No. Went off before lunch. She go Mr. Bloeckman." Anthony started. "Went out with Mr. Bloeckman?" "She be back five." Without a word Anthony left the kitchen with Tana's disconsolate "I tell" trailing after him. So this was Gloria's idea of excitement, by God!
Anthony gave a little grunt and toppled over onto the green plush carpet, finding, as he fell, that his mouth was full of blood and seemed oddly loose in front. He struggled to his feet, panting and spitting, and then as he started toward Bloeckman, who stood a few feet away, his fists clenched but not up, two waiters who had appeared from nowhere seized his arms and held him, helpless.
"He has that air," murmured Rachael. Anthony tried to remember whether she had said anything before. He thought not. It was her initial remark. Mr. Bloeckman suddenly cleared his throat and said in a loud, distinct voice: "On the contrary. When a man speaks he's merely tradition. He has at best a few thousand years back of him. But woman, why, she is the miraculous mouthpiece of posterity."
Bloeckman was following, cap in hand. "Dearest!" she cried. "We've been for the best jaunt all over New York State." "I'll have to be starting home," said Bloeckman, almost immediately. "Wish you'd both been here when I came." "I'm sorry I wasn't," answered Anthony dryly. When he had departed Anthony hesitated. The fear was gone from his heart, yet he felt that some protest was ethically apropos.
He had requested with a strong undertone of irony that she use his first name, and this she had done obediently several times then slipping, helpless, repentant but dissolved in laughter, back into "Blockhead." It was a very sad and thoughtless thing. "I'm afraid Mr. Bloeckman thinks we're a frivolous crowd," sighed Muriel, waving a balanced oyster in his direction.
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