Who Do You Think You Are

fair sex, he would say, and damsel in distress . Coming to his carrel with that story, Rose had turned herself into a damsel in distress. The pretended irony would not fool anybody; it was clear that he did wish to operate in a world of knights and ladies; outrages; devotions.
    She continued to see him in the Library, every Saturday, and often she met him walking across the campus or in the cafeteria. He made a point of greeting her with courtesy and concern, saying, “How are you,” in a way that suggested she might have suffered a further attack, or might still be recovering from the first one. He always flushed deeply when he saw her, and she thought that this was because the memory of what she had told him so embarrassed him. Later she found out it was because he was in love.
    He discovered her name, and where she lived. He phoned her at Dr. Henshawe’s house and asked her to go to the movies. At first when he said, “This is Patrick Blatchford speaking.” Rose could not think who it was, but after a moment she recognized the high, rather aggrieved and tremulous voice. She said she would go. This was partly because Dr. Henshawe was always saying she was glad Rose did not waste her time running around with boys.
    Rather soon after she started to go out with him, she said to Patrick, “Wouldn’t it be funny if it was you grabbed my leg that day in the Library?”
    He did not think it would be funny. He was horrified that she would think such a thing.
    She said she was only joking. She said she meant that it would be a good twist in a story; maybe a Maugham story, or a Hitchcock movie. They had just been to see a Hitchcock movie.
    “You know, if Hitchcock made a movie out of something like that, you could be a wild insatiable leg-grabber with one half of your personality, and the other half could be a timid scholar.”
    He didn’t like that either.
    “Is that how I seem to you, a timid scholar?” It seemed to her he deepened his voice, introduced a few growling notes, drew in his chin, as if for a joke. But he seldom joked with her; he didn’t think joking was suitable when you were in love.
    “I didn’t say you were a timid scholar or a leg-grabber. It was just an idea.”
    After a while he said, “I suppose I don’t seem very manly.”
    She was startled and irritated by such exposure. He took such chances; had nothing ever taught him not to take such chances? But maybe he didn’t, after all. He knew she would have to say something reassuring. Though she was longing not to, she longed to say judiciously, “Well, no. You don’t.”
    But that would not actually be true. He did seem masculine to her. Because he took those chances. Only a man could be so careless and demanding.
    “We come from two different worlds,” she said to him, on another occasion. She felt like a character in a play, saying that. “My people are poor people. You would think the place I lived in was a dump.”
    Now she was the one who was being dishonest, pretending to throw herself on his mercy; for of course she did not expect him to say, oh, well, if you come from poor people and live in a dump, then I will have to withdraw my offer.
    “But I’m glad,” said Patrick. “I’m glad you’re poor. You’re so lovely. You’re like the Beggar Maid.”
    “Who?”
    “King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid. You know. The painting.
    Don’t you know that painting?”
    Patrick had a trick—no, it was not a trick, Patrick had no tricks— Patrick had a way of expressing surprise, fairly scornful surprise, when people did not know something he knew, and similar scorn, similar surprise, whenever they had bothered to know something he did not. His arrogance and humility were both oddly exaggerated. The arrogance, Rose decided in time, must come from being rich, though Patrick was never arrogant about that in itself. His sisters, when she met them, turned out to be the same way, disgusted with anybody who did not know about horses or sailing, and just as disgusted by anybody knowing about music, say, or politics. Patrick and they could do little together but radiate disgust. But wasn’t Billy Pope as bad, wasn’t Flo as bad, when it came to arrogance? Maybe. There was a difference, though, and the difference was that Billy Pope and Flo were not protected. Things could get at them: D.P.’s; people speaking French on the radio; changes. Patrick and his sisters behaved as if things could never get at them. Their voices, when they