The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children by Brendan Connell

blowing through the door. “There you are Allen. . . . There you are children,” her eyes wide with eccentricity.
    III.
     
    You were very near being a naughty boy—a boy one might have called atrocious, except that you had such pretty skin, such winning ways when it pleased you to charm.
    Remember, it was I who took you clothes shopping, to indulge my broken feminine streak, if you wish to call it so. . . . But I did enjoy expending my taste. —Yes, I was born with a few lumps of that—on suiting you elegantly, protecting your genteel instincts. . . . Of course I realise that you got them from her. There is not a marked degree of refinement on my side of the family. Still, I have always recognized and respected beauty when it condescended to enter my sphere. And, believe me, I mean to imply no negative undertones.
    — But you did look so cute, in your little garments, selected by me, my chapped hands; a little gentleman. And then we styled your hair. . . . You were my doll, the baby doll of a big, greying girl,—you were much more to me.
    IV.
     
    Allen Hutton appears in a violet jacket, an avocado tie, terminating a full three inches above his waistline, and a simple fine-weave cotton shirt of the lightest shade of blue. His pants, tan, immaculately pressed, form two slashes above black booties.
    Guests mingle, thin-stemmed glasses growing from hands like effervescent fungi. Women gossip over diminutive plates of mulberry salad, Vicksburg cheese balls, and aspic-glazed shrimp. Here a fashion is made of laziness and many smile, for they can fathom, in their spoon-like existences, no reason to frown: a woman with the head of a sheep plugged on the neck of a turtle talks in low tones to a gentleman resembling, to a startling degree, a well groomed summer sausage. An ex-senator staggers unsteadily by, the flesh of his face flopping behind a protruding jowl. A hired pianist, placed discretely off to one side, plays Chopin, a subservient smile freezing his blanched and meagre lips.
    Allen, standing hipshot before the bar, was just taking the first sip of his Alexander and noting the strangeness of the group of guests his father and aunt had assembled when she herself, the aunt, appeared, pulling him off to one side.
    “ I would like to introduce you to someone,” she said. “Or I should say re-introduce. I believe that you met as children. . . . Allen Hutton, Lady Helen Ashe.”
    “ A lady . . . well,” he said, taking her fingertips and signalling mock deference with a downward inclination of his head.
    “ Helen is the Earl of Saxelby’s daughter,” Aunt Margaret remarked.
    “ Yes, I remember,” Allen commented suavely. “And how is the Right Honourable Earl? I seem to recall visiting some old castle of his, on a greenish sort of hillside, a lot of long shrubbery, a bit depressing. But maybe I am being too forward. I remember you, but you might not remember me. This violet jacket throws people.”
    “ To be frank, the violet jacket was the only thing I did think I recognized.”
    Large-kneed Aunt Margaret smiled nervously as she looked at the two, both so attractive, both so much more feminine than she.
    *
    Later, as the guests began to filter out, Mr. Hutton took Allen apart to the study. Lighting a cigarette and leaning his healthy rump against a desk he proceeded:
    “ Allen, I am going to broach a subject which I know is distasteful to you, but you are going to have to face sometime, and I believe now is as good as any.”
    “ Father, really,” the young man replied, throwing his body into the soft, cool mass of a leather armchair.
    “ Occupation Allen. You have to choose some kind of occupation. At school you took in a pretty good variety of directionless classes: film appreciation, Greek drama, dancing for God’s sake! . . . Don’t you realise that your family is sitting on a fortune; a fortune which it takes outrageous energy and prudence to manage, to maintain, grow. . . . A great deal of