Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (277 page)

Upon
his
graduation
in
1914
he
went
home
to
Baltimore
with
his Harvard
diploma
in
his
pocket.
Hildegarde
was
now
residing
in
Italy, so
Benjamin
went
to
live
with
his
son,
Roscoe.
But
though
he
was welcomed
in
a
general
way,
there
was
obviously
no
heartiness
in
Ros-coe's
feeling
toward
him—there
was
even
perceptible
a
tendency
on his
son's
part
to
think
that
Benjamin,
as
he
moped
about
the
house in
adolescent
mooniness,
was
somewhat
in
the
way.
Roscoe
was
married
now
and
prominent
in
Baltimore
life,
and
he
wanted
no
scandal to
creep
out
in
connection
with
his
family.

Benjamin,
no
longer
persona
grata
with
the
debutantes
and
younger college
set,
found
himself
left
much
alone,
except
for
the
companionship
of
three
or
four
fifteen-year-old
boys
in
the
neighborhood.
His idea
of
going
to
St.
Midas'
school
recurred
to
him.

"Say,"
he
said
to
Roscoe
one
day,
"I've
told
you
over
and
over
that I
want
to
go
to
prep
school."

"Well,
go,
then,"
replied
Roscoe
shortly.
The
matter
was
distasteful to
him,
and
he
wished
to
avoid
a
discussion.

"I
can't
go
alone,"
said
Benjamin
helplessly.
"You'll
have
to
enter me
and
take
me
up
there."

"I
haven't
got
time,"
declared
Roscoe
abruptly.
His
eyes
narrowed and
he
looked
uneasily
at
his
father.
"As
a
matter
of
fact,"
he
added, "you'd
better
not
go
on
with
this
business
much
longer.
You
better pull
up
short.
You
better—you
better"—he
paused
and
his
face
crimsoned
as
he
sought
for
words—"you
better
turn
right
around
and
start back
the
other
way.
This
has
gone
too
far
to
be
a
joke.
It
isn't
funny any
longer.
You—you
behave
yourself!"

Benjamin
looked
at
him,
on
the
verge
of
tears.

"And
another
thing,"
continued
Roscoe,
"when
visitors
are
in
the house
I
want
you
to
call
me
'Uncle'—not
'Roscoe,'
but
'Uncle,'
do you
understand?
It
looks
absurd
for
a
boy
of
fifteen
to
call
me
by my
first
name.
Perhaps
you'd
better
call
me
'Uncle'
all
the
time,
so you'll
get
used
to
it." With
a
harsh
look
at
his
father,
Roscoe
turned
away.
.
.
.

1
o

At
the
termination
of
this
interview,
Benjamin
wandered
dismally upstairs
and
stared
at
himself
in
the
mirror.
He
had
not
shaved
for three
months,
but
he
could
find
nothing
on
his
face
but
a
faint
white down
with
which
it
seemed
unnecessary
to
meddle.
When
he
had first
come
home
from
Harvard,
Roscoe
had
approached
him
with
the proposition
that
he
should
wear
eyeglasses
and
imitation
whiskers glued
to
his
cheeks,
and
it
had
seemed
for
a
moment
that
the
farce of
his
early
years
was
to
be
repeated.
But
whiskers
had
itched
and made
him
ashamed.
He
wept
and
Roscoe
had
reluctantly
relented.