There seemed suddenly to be much left in life, if only this revival of
old interests did not mean that he was backing away from it again--
backing away from life itself.
* * * *
RESTLESSNESS
"I'm tres old and tres bored, Tom," said Amory one day, stretching
himself at ease in the comfortable window-seat. He always felt most
natural in a recumbent position.
"You used to be entertaining before you started to write," he continued.
"Now you save any idea that you think would do to print."
Existence had settled back to an ambitionless normality. They had
decided that with economy they could still afford the apartment, which
Tom, with the domesticity of an elderly cat, had grown fond of. The old
English hunting prints on the wall were Tom's, and the large tapestry by
courtesy, a relic of decadent days in college, and the great profusion of
orphaned candlesticks and the carved Louis XV chair in which no one could
sit more than a minute without acute spinal disorders--Tom claimed that
this was because one was sitting in the lap of Montespan's wraith--
at any rate, it was Tom's furniture that decided them to stay.
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