Eugene thought that this was monstrous if it was true; a swift look at Genevieve and Mama convinced him, however, that not everything was being told. A mad exultancy arose in him: the old desire returned again to throw a bomb into the camp, in order to watch its effect; to express murderous opinions in a gentle Christian voice, further entrenched by an engaging matter-of-factness, as if he were but expressing the commonplace thought of all sensible people; bawdily, lewdly, shockingly with a fine assumption of boyish earnestness, sincerity, and naïveté. So, in a voice heavily coated with burlesque feeling, he said: “Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Simpson. You have no idea what it means to me to be able to come to a place like this.”
“I know,” said Genevieve with fine sympathy, “when you’re a thousand miles from home—”
“A thousand!” he cried, with a bitter laugh, “a thousand! Say rather a million.” And he waited, almost squealing in his throat, until they should bite.
“But—but your home is in the South, isn’t it?” Mrs. Simpson inquired doubtfully.
“Home! Home!” cried he, with raucous laugh. “I have no home!”
“Oh, you poor boy!” said Genevieve.
“But your parents—are they both dead?”
“No!” he answered, with a sad smile. “They are both living.”
There was a pregnant silence.
“They do not live together,” he added after a moment, feeling he could not rely on their deductive powers.
“O-o-oh,” said Mrs. Simpson significantly, running the vowel up and down the vocal scale. “O-o-oh!”
“Nasty weather, isn’t it?” he remarked, deliberately drawing a loose cigarette from his pocket. “I wish it would snow: I like your cold Northern winters as only a Southerner can like them; I like the world at night when it is muffled, enclosed with snow; I like a warm secluded house, sheltered under heavy fir trees, with the curtains drawn across a mellow light, and books, and a beautiful woman within. These are some of the things I like.”
“Gee!” said the boy, his heavy blond head leaned forward intently. “What was the trouble?”
“Jimmy! Hush!” cried Genevieve, and yet they all looked toward Eugene with eager intensity.
“The trouble?” said he, vacantly. “What trouble?”
