“Oh, David,” his grandfather said, softly. “You are so dear to me. And you are indeed correct—I do want you to be with someone who will care for you: not because I think you incapable of caring for yourself but because I believe you would be happiest with another. In the years since you returned from Europe, you have become less and less a part of the world. I know your sicknesses have been trying—I know how depleted they leave you and, moreover, how ashamed you are of them. But, child, this is a man who has endured great sorrow and illness in his past and has not run from them; he is therefore a man worth considering, because he is a man for whom your happiness will always be his concern. That is who I want for you.”
Together, they stood in silence; his grandfather looked at him, and David looked at the floor. “Tell me, David,” said his grandfather, slowly, “is there somebody else in your life? You can tell me, child.”
“No, Grandfather,” he said to the ground.
“Then,” his grandfather said, “you must write to Mister Griffith at once and tell him you accept his offer to see him again. And at that meeting, you must either break off relations entirely or you must tell him of your intentions to continue communications. And if you do decide to keep speaking with him, David—and though you have not asked me, I think you ought—then you must do so with sincerity and with a generosity of spirit of which I know you to be capable. You owe the man that. Will you promise me this?”
And David said he would.
IX
The next few days were unusually busy—the family gathered for Wolf’s birthday one evening, and Eliza’s the evening after—and so it was not until the following Thursday that he was able to meet Edward outside the school after his class, and then walk with him to his boardinghouse. Along the way, Edward slipped his left arm through David’s right, and David, who had never before walked arm in arm with someone, squeezed Edward’s closer, though he had first looked behind him to see if the coachman had witnessed it, for he did not want it reported to Adams and, therefore, to his grandfather.
That afternoon, as they lay together—David had brought with him a fine wool blanket in a soft pigeon-gray that Edward had exclaimed over, and in which they now swaddled themselves—Edward talked of his friends. “A misfit bunch,” he laughed, almost boastfully, and so they seemed to be: There was Theodora, the prodigal daughter of a rich family in Connecticut, who aspired to be a singer in “one of your dreaded nightclubs”; Harry, a penniless but exceedingly handsome young man who was the companion of “a very wealthy banker—your grandfather would likely know him”; Fritz, a painter, who sounded like little more than a wastrel （though of course David did not say this）; and Marianne, who was attending art school and gave drawing lessons for money. They were of a kind: young, poor （though only some by circumstance of birth）， carefree. David pictured them—Theodora, pretty, slim, nervous, with lustrous dark hair; Harry, blond and black-eyed and full-lipped; Fritz, sallow and twitchy with a long, thin smirk; Marianne, with a guileless smile and heaps of peach-colored curls. “I’d very much like to meet them someday,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he did—he wanted to pretend they did not exist, that Edward was his alone—and Edward, as though he knew this, merely smiled and said he someday might.
Too soon, it was time for him to leave, and as he was buttoning his coat, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Oh, no—I forgot to mention it, I’m leaving tomorrow!”
“Leaving?”
“Yes, one of my sisters—one of the two in Vermont—she’s soon to have a baby, and I’m going to see her and the others.”
“Oh,” he said. （Would Edward not have told him if he hadn’t asked to see him? Would David have announced himself as usual at the boardinghouse and sat in the parlor, waiting for him to make an appearance? How long would he have waited—hours, yes, but how many?—before admitting failure and retreating to Washington Square?） “When will you be back?”
“At the end of February.”
“But that’s so long!”
“Not so long! February is brief. Besides, it shan’t be the very end—February twentieth. Not long at all! And I’ll write you.” A slow, insinuating smile crept over Edward’s face, and he flung the blanket aside and stood and wrapped his arms around David. “Why? Shall you miss me?”
He colored. “You know I shall.”
“But that is so dear! I am so honored.” Over the weeks, Edward’s speech had lost some of its theatricality, its dramatic expressiveness, but now it had returned, and, hearing its inflections once more, David was suddenly uncomfortable—what had not perturbed him before seemed now false and insincere and oddly troubling, and it was with genuine sadness, but also some other feeling, something unnamable but unpleasant, that he bade Edward goodbye.
But by the following week, any discomfort he had felt had dissipated, replaced by pure longing. How swiftly had Edward transformed him! How dreary life was without him! Now his afternoons were once again empty, and he spent them as he once had: reading and drawing and embroidery, though most of his time was spent daydreaming, or on listless strolls through the park. He even found himself walking to the café where they had almost had their first coffee, and this time sitting and ordering a cup, which he drank, slowly, darting glances at the door whenever it opened as if the person who stepped through it might be Edward.
He was returning from a visit to the café when Adams told him a letter had arrived for him, which turned out to be from Charles Griffith, inviting David to dinner at his house when he was in the city the following week. He accepted, politely but with no sense of anticipation, meaning only to honor his grandfather’s request, and Charles’s own to apologize in person, and the evening of their meeting he arrived home from the café so late that he barely had time to change and pat some water on his face before he’d had to climb into the waiting hansom.
Charles Griffith’s house was near David’s childhood home, although directly off Fifth Avenue. That house had been large, but Charles’s was even larger, and notably grander, with a wide, curved marble staircase that led to the parlor floor, where his host awaited him, standing as soon as David entered. They shook hands, formally.
“David—it is so good to see you.”
“And you,” he said.
And to his surprise, this was to be true. They sat in the splendid parlor—David thinking of how sniffy Peter, who cared about such things, would be if he saw this space, with its overly rich textiles and colors, its overly plush sofas, its profusion of glittering lamps, its brocade-hung walls almost bare of paintings—and once more, conversation came naturally. David inquired about James, and saw an expression of sorrow move across Charles’s face （“I thank you for asking, but he is very much the same, I’m afraid”）， and they spoke of the continuing silence from the Delacroix family, and how they had each spent the holidays.
As they were seated for dinner, Charles said, “I remember you said oyster stew was one of your favorites.”