The Quiet American by Graham Greene Page B

children in Limoges.”
    “I don’t remember that.” “The history books gloss it over.”
    I was to see many times that look of pain and disappointment touch his eyes and mouth, when reality didn’t match the romantic ideas he cherished, or when someone he loved or admired dropped below the impossible standard he had set. Once, I remember, I caught York Harding out in a gross error of fact, and I had to comfort him: “It’s human to make mistakes.” He had laughed nervously and said, “You must think me a fool, but-well, I almost thought him infallible.” He added, “My father, took to him a lot the only time they met, and my father’s darned difficult to please.” The big black dog called Duke, having panted long enough to establish a kind of right to the air, began to poke about the room. “Could you ask your dog to be still?” I said.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry. Duke. Duke. Sit down, Duke.” Duke sat down and began noisily to lick his private parts. I filled our glasses and managed in passing to disturb Duke’s toilet. The quiet lasted a very short time; he began to scratch himself.
    “Duke’s awfully intelligent,” said Pyle. “What happened to Prince?”
    “We were down on the farm in Connecticut and he got run over.” “Were you upset?”
    “Oh, I minded a lot. He meant a great deal to me, but one has to be sensible. Nothing could bring him back.” “And if you lose Phuong, will you be sensible?” “Oh yes, I hope so. And you?”
    “I doubt it. I might even run amok. Have you thought about that, Pyle?” “I wish you’d call me Alden, Thomas.” “I’d rather not. Pyle has got-associations. Have you thought about it?”
    “Of course I haven’t. You’re the straightest guy I’ve ever known. When I remember how you behaved when I barged in...”
    “I remember thinking before I went to sleep how convenient it would be if there were an attack and you were killed. A hero’s death. For Democracy.”
    “Don’t laugh at me, Thomas.” He shifted his long limbs uneasily. “I must seem a bit dumb to you, but I know when you’re kidding.” “I’m not.”
    “I know if you come clean you want what’s best for her.” It was then I heard Phuong’s step. I had hoped against hope that he would have gone before she returned- He heard it too and recognised it. He said, “There she is,” although he had had only one evening to learn her footfall. Even the dog got up and stood by the door, which I had left open for coolness, almost as though he accepted her as one of Pyle’s family. I was an intruder.
    Phuong said, “My sister was not in,” and looked guardedly at Pyle.
    I wondered whether she were telling the truth or whether her sister had ordered her to hurry back. “You remember M. Pyle?” I said. “Enchantee.” She was on her best behaviour. “I’m so pleased to see you again,” he said, blushing. “Comment?”   “Her English is not very good,” I said. “I’m afraid my French is awful. I’m taking lessons though. And l can understand—if Miss Phuong will speak slowly.”
    “I’ll act as interpreter,” I said. “The local accent takes some getting used to. Now what do you want to say? Sit down, Phuong. M. Pyle has come specially to see you. Are you sure,” I added to Pyle, “that you wouldn’t like me to leave you two alone?”
    “I want you to hear everything I have to say. I wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”   “Well fire away.”
    He said solemnly, as though this part he had learned by heart, that he had a great love and respect for Phuong. He had felt it ever since the night he had danced with her. I was reminded a little of a butler showing a party of tourists over a “great house”. The great house was his heart, and of the private apartments where the family lived we were given only a rapid and surreptitious glimpse. I translated for him with meticulous care-it sounded worse that way, and Phuong sat quiet with her hands in her lap as though she were