How the New World Found the Old

"Unaccustomed as I am to public thinking," said Gene Robertson, "it would be difficult to tell you how." He thought for a second and added thoughtfully "I guess seven preppies don't really constitute the public."

(He had done it so often. Every vacation since Fourth Form at Belfax. And now it was getting a little dull; he had sworn off three times but always came back for more.)

"Here's what you do." He paused again. It was difficult for him to analyze his most singular achievement, even though he was grooming his successors.

(Actually, the most interesting things had happened when he was inside. Getting there wasn't so difficult; at the Plaza you climbed the back stairs and then just wandered. At the Waldorf you took the elevator up and walked through the back door. If everything else failed (and it rarely did) you just walked up to the lady with the list and said, with the slightest mist veiling your eyes, "I met this girl last summer (a short pause) and I haven't seen her since then. Would you just let me go in for ten minutes so I can say hello and I miss her.")

"Well before I start, let me tell you the code. You never bribe. This is pretty important, actually"--he felt the listeners to be his disciples--"because bribing leads to paying for dances."

(He had only failed once. It was at the Cosmopolitan Club dance. Actually, he hadn't tried too hard; most of the evening had been spent at a funeral home asking the manager if he could see some of the more attractive specimens. When he finally got to the dance (a trifle sobered) there was no entrance. He tried to tell the matron that his daughter had to be home at 12 and he wanted to go in and get her. She didn't fall for it, so he walked down the block yelling "nunc cosmopolitan solum stat.")

"And always be gay." He was reeling slightly. "It's as if you were on a beach on a stark, windly night and there was a fire far in the distance. You run toward the fire, knowing that next year you'll make the cross country team if you go fast enough. But it's always there, and burning in the night." Gene paused for breath.

(He cut in on a blond wearing a robin's egg-blue dress. She smiled and asked "What's your name and where do you come from." "Panama, but we read the papers down there. I rode up on my burro but his feet got wet crossing the canal." "Oh, really? My father loves horses." They danced for a few minutes, and Gene became bored. "Excuse me, I have to go. Big polo match tomorrow and my horse kicks me if I'm late." "Oh really? My father loves horses.")

"Never be underdressed. I mean, don't wear tails or anything like that, but let them know you belong. Once, I actually bought tickets to a dance (it wasn't really society) and then they wouldn't allow me, as the phrase goes, to make the scene. It was the Guard's Ball and you were supposed to be in costume. But I was wearing a brown striped suit with a black arm band. I was going to tell the lady that I had been at Versailles and now was dispatched to accompany President Wilson's casket. My date, I fancied, was German--I had met her in Paris--and couldn't get too unhappy about Wilson's death. But when we got to the dance, this lady puffed up her stomach and said 'How could you dare to come to the dance looking like that.' I stared at her right in the ear, glanced at may date, and answered 'I always look like this.' So, anyway, always appear as if you belong."

(Once, he had been at something called the Senior Holidays. He had learned that ten out of ten girls didn't beat tom-toms to contact their boy friends and their unrelieved coyness bored him silly. To remedy the situation, he picked up three plates of sandwiches and passed them around the dance floor. He gave two sandwiches to the ugliest girl there and she bit her index finger while eating them. He couldn't stand blood, so departed, taking the sandwiches (all on silver plates) home with him.)

The recollection and advice made Gene dizzy. "You'll have more fun learning yourself," he said, and ate a turnip.