Three thousand miles from Beacon Street, and two thousand miles still to go! Why, he inquired sourly of his usually pleasant self, had he ever agreed to make this absurd expedition into heathen country? Here it was late June, Boston was at its best. Tennis at Longwood, long mild evenings in a single shell on the Charles, week- ends and golf with Agatha Parker at Magnolia. And if one must travel, there was Paris. He hadn't seen Paris in two years and had been rather planning a quick run over, when his mother had put this preposterous notion into his head.
Preposterous — it was all of that. Traveling five thousand miles just as a gentle hint to Aunt Minerva to return to her calm, well-ordered life behind purple win- dow-panes on Beacon Street. And was there any chance that his strong-minded relative would take the hint ? Not one in a thousand. Aunt Minerva was accustomed to do as she pleased — he had an uncomfortable, shocked recol- lection of one occasion when she had said she would do as she damn well pleased.
John Quincy wished he was back. He wished he was crossing Boston Common to his office on State Street, there to put out a new issue of bonds. He was not yet a member of the firm — that was an honor accorded only to Winterslips who were bald and a little stooped — but his heart was in his work. He put out a bond issue with loving apprehension, waiting for the verdict as a play- wright waits behind the scenes on a first night. Would those First Mortgage Sixes go over big, or would they flop at his feet?
The hoarse boom of a ferry whistle recalled John Quincy to his present unbelievable location on the map. The boat began to move. He was dimly conscious of a
