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Pennsylvania Dutch pie plates of pale green glass, oven-proof, for fifty cents each at a dusty old roadside antique shop. She had also found a hand-painted chest of drawers for a mere eight dollars, and the man had been kind enough to deliver it the following week. Edith had installed it in the guestroom. It was beige with dainty blue and white painted flowers – delightful!
    As Edith went about her chores that morning, hanging T-shirts and Levis and pajamas on the back lawn line to dry, she reminded herself that she had vowed to change her attitude toward George. If he was going to become a fixture, it was destructive to fret – inwardly. It had occurred to her that George might be an asset, if she ‘held a thought,’ as Mary Baker Eddy would put it. George could be a good influence on Cliffie, if they got to know each other better. George had made a success of his career as a lawyer, and certainly passed exams in his time, and had been capable of organizing his life. Even now there was a method in his reading: nineteenth-century history for the past three weeks. Cliffie needed organization. Brett didn’t spend nearly enough time with him. Edith decided to have a talk with George about Cliffie.
    Her other equally important thought was that she ought to take it easier in regard to Cliffie. Nothing was going to be accomplished by reminding him that if he didn’t pull himself together he’d never get to college. Cliffie wanted to go to college, Princeton indeed. Edith had had this same thought before, she had to admit, and she’d never stuck with it long. Anger and impatience would rise again, she’d feel like shaking him (only two or three times had she), and the old round of nagging would begin again. But this time with George in the house, things just might be different. Hope springs eternal, she thought, and smiled wryly at herself.
    ‘George?’ she called gaily from halfway up the stairs. ‘Like a tray for lunch?’
    ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Edith – yes.’
    ‘Right you are! Ten minutes.’
    She made chicken sandwiches with lettuce, a touch of mayonnaise and sliced stuffed olives, put a couple of slices of tomato on each plate, and carried the tray up. She had also brought glasses and a quart container of milk.
    ‘Thought I might join you,’ she said, ‘if you’ve no objection.’
    ‘Of course not, why should I? A pleasure.’ George heaved himself up a little against his pillows, and laid his book aside.
    Edith put the tray on his lap, and managed for herself by dragging up a second chair to put in front of her as a table. They were silent for a few moments as they ate, then Edith came out with it directly. ‘It occurred to me, George, that you might be a good influence on Cliffie.’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘Well – because you’re outside the family. I mean – of course you’re Brett’s uncle, but you’re new to Cliffie. You’re a man who’s had a successful career, you know how to organize yourself – how to
work
,
I mean, when you do work.’
    George laughed dryly, ‘Ha-ha!’ with his mouth wide for an instant, then asked pleasantly, ‘What do you mean by being a good influence? I never was a saint, you know.’
    ‘But you can see, I think, that Cliffie doesn’t buckle down to anything. He’s got no drive, he doesn’t see any reason for doing anything, not even for getting dressed sometimes in the morning, even finishing a model airplane once he’s started.’ Edith stopped, because she could go on and on about Cliffie.
    But George seemed to be waiting for her to say more.
    ‘I don’t know if Brett’s said anything to you, but Cliffie’s been a worry since he was two or three years old. He’s not stupid, really there’s nothing wrong with his I.Q., I’ve been told. But all during his childhood, he seemed to take a pleasure in not doing what we wanted him to do like – make progress in reading before he even started school. He’s like a person only half alive – except