Foreign Affairs by Alison Lurie Page A

world. So why should she mind seeing him stumble, even fall? It will do him good to get a few bruises and a little mud in his eye. The fact that Joe doesn’t resent Fred the way she does, though he is in her opinion basically much more brilliant and has a more original mind, is for Debby just another proof of her husband’s inner superiority.
    Fred, however, has never been agile at discovering unpleasant motives for his friends’ behavior. What he thinks now is that he must somehow have offended Debby, maybe by coming to dinner too often. Maybe she thinks he is sponging on them; maybe he is sponging on them. (Actually, this idea has never occurred to either Joe or Debby.) He has to ease up, Fred thinks as the train jolts toward Notting Hill Gate; he has got to meet some other people in London.
    He decides that he will go to Professor Miner’s party after all. Probably there will be nobody there but other elderly, touchy academics; but you never know. And at least there will be drinks, and more important, maybe food—enough hors d’oeuvres so that for once he won’t have to buy supper.

3
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    Raspberry, strawberry, blackberry jam,
    Tell me the name of your young man.
    Old rhyme
    I N Monsieur Thompson’s, a small but chic restaurant in Kensington Park Road, Vinnie Miner is waiting for her oldest London friend, a children’s book editor, writer, and critic called Edwin Francis. She is not anxious, for Edwin has thoughtfully called the restaurant to say he may be late; nor is she impatient. She is content to sit enjoying the book she’s just bought, the yellow and white chiffon of the fresh jonquils on the table, the matching alternation of sun and shade on the whitewashed houses outside, and the sensation of being in London in early spring.
    Unless you knew Vinnie well, you would hardly recognize her as the miserable professor who got onto the plane in Chapter One. Perched on an oak settle with her legs tucked under her she looks girlish, almost childish. Her small size and the illustrated cover of her book (on Australian playground games) add to the illusion. Her costume is also juvenile by academic standards: a ruffled white blouse and a deep-flounced tan wool jumper. Round her narrow shoulders is her Liberty wool shawl, which gives her the look of a junior high school student, playing the part of a kindly grandmother. Her spectacles might well be a prop, the lines in her face drawn with eyebrow pencil, and her hair incompletely powdered gray.
    “Vinnie darling. Forgive me.” Edwin Francis leans over the table to brush her cheek with his. “How are you? . . . Oh, thank you, dear.” He removes his coat and presents it to the waiter. “You won’t believe what I’ve just heard.”
    “I might. Try me,” Vinnie says.
    “Well.” Edwin leans forward. Though he is some years younger than Vinnie, his appearance—when he is in good form, as now—also suggests an artificially aged child. In his case, too, smallness of stature plays a part in the illusion; his short limbs, round face and torso, high color, and curly fair hair—now becoming rather sparse—also contribute to the effect. (When he is not in good form—depressed, drinking too much, unhappily in love—he resembles an afflicted Hobbit.) In spite of his innocuous appearance, and a manner that matches it—amused, offhand, self-deprecating—Edwin is a figure of power in the children’s book world and a formidable critic of both juvenile and adult literature: learned, sharp-witted, and, when he chooses, sharp-tongued.
    “Well,” he continues. “You know Posy Billings.”
    “Yes, of course.” Contrary to Fred Turner’s assumption, Vinnie’s London circle isn’t composed exclusively or mainly of academics. Through Edwin and other friends she is acquainted with publishers, writers, artists, journalists, people in the theater, and even one or two society hostesses like Lady Billings.
    “I was talking to Posy this morning, and you were quite