contented himself by making a sign of negation, a sign, however, which actually implied physical distaste.
I can never believe you don't want fame, Abel Morris cried, shaking his powerful head back and forth, and adding, with a certain awe, You're a creator. You bring forth . . .
No! No! protested Ambrose. A vision of those Harvard men in horn-rimmed glasses haunted him again.
Abel Morris was crestfallen. There must be creation, he continued doggedly. God taught us that. What kind doesn't matter, but there must be creation. A play or a son, it doesn't matter. It does matter if you have something to pass on, to show posterity, to glorify your name.
Ambrose winced. Those Harvard men! The interviews! What did he know about creation?
I promised to join my friend in the club car, he reminded Abel Morris. Want to come along?
Abel Morris did. Only, he added, I want to collect some hooch out of my valise. Wouldn't you like to try a little genuine Bourbon? I've had it in the wood for ten years.
Ambrose nodded his answer. In rising, he contrived to upset a finger-bowl, a considerable feat of
