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They
were
formally
introduced
two
days
later
,
and
his
aunt
told
him
her
history
.
The
Ramillys
were
two
:
old
Mr.
Ramilly
and
his
granddaughter
,
Eleanor
.
She
had
lived
in
France
with
a
restless
mother
whom
Amory
imagined
to
have
been
very
like
his
own
,
on
whose
death
she
had
come
to
America
,
to
live
in
Maryland
.
She
had
gone
to
Baltimore
first
to
stay
with
a
bachelor
uncle
,
and
there
she
insisted
on
being
a
debutante
at
the
age
of
seventeen
.
She
had
a
wild
winter
and
arrived
in
the
country
in
March
,
having
quarrelled
frantically
with
all
her
Baltimore
relatives
,
and
shocked
them
into
fiery
protest
.
A
rather
fast
crowd
had
come
out
,
who
drank
cocktails
in
limousines
and
were
promiscuously
condescending
and
patronizing
toward
older
people
,
and
Eleanor
with
an
esprit
that
hinted
strongly
of
the
boulevards
,
led
many
innocents
still
redolent
of
St.
Timothy
's
and
Farmington
,
into
paths
of
Bohemian
naughtiness
.
When
the
story
came
to
her
uncle
,
a
forgetful
cavalier
of
a
more
hypocritical
era
,
there
was
a
scene
,
from
which
Eleanor
emerged
,
subdued
but
rebellious
and
indignant
,
to
seek
haven
with
her
grandfather
who
hovered
in
the
country
on
the
near
side
of
senility
.
That
's
as
far
as
her
story
went
;
she
told
him
the
rest
herself
,
but
that
was
later
.
Often
they
swam
and
as
Amory
floated
lazily
in
the
water
he
shut
his
mind
to
all
thoughts
except
those
of
hazy
soap-bubble
lands
where
the
sun
splattered
through
wind-drunk
trees
.
How
could
any
one
possibly
think
or
worry
,
or
do
anything
except
splash
and
dive
and
loll
there
on
the
edge
of
time
while
the
flower
months
failed
.
Let
the
days
move
over
--
sadness
and
memory
and
pain
recurred
outside
,
and
here
,
once
more
,
before
he
went
on
to
meet
them
he
wanted
to
drift
and
be
young
.
There
were
days
when
Amory
resented
that
life
had
changed
from
an
even
progress
along
a
road
stretching
ever
in
sight
,
with
the
scenery
merging
and
blending
,
into
a
succession
of
quick
,
unrelated
scenes
--
two
years
of
sweat
and
blood
,
that
sudden
absurd
instinct
for
paternity
that
Rosalind
had
stirred
;
the
half-sensual
,
half-neurotic
quality
of
this
autumn
with
Eleanor
.
He
felt
that
it
would
take
all
time
,
more
than
he
could
ever
spare
,
to
glue
these
strange
cumbersome
pictures
into
the
scrap-book
of
his
life
.
It
was
all
like
a
banquet
where
he
sat
for
this
half-hour
of
his
youth
and
tried
to
enjoy
brilliant
epicurean
courses
.
Dimly
he
promised
himself
a
time
where
all
should
be
welded
together
.
For
months
it
seemed
that
he
had
alternated
between
being
borne
along
a
stream
of
love
or
fascination
,
or
left
in
an
eddy
,
and
in
the
eddies
he
had
not
desired
to
think
,
rather
to
be
picked
up
on
a
wave
's
top
and
swept
along
again
.
"
The
despairing
,
dying
autumn
and
our
love
--
how
well
they
harmonize
!
"
said
Eleanor
sadly
one
day
as
they
lay
dripping
by
the
water
.
"
The
Indian
summer
of
our
hearts
--
"
he
ceased
.
"
Tell
me
,
"
she
said
finally
,
"
was
she
light
or
dark
?
"
"
Light
.
"
