Mr Bremble's Buttons A Novel Author:Dorothy Langley Mr. Brembles Buttons A NOVEL BY Dorothy Langley 1947 SIMON AND SCHUSTER, NEW YORK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM COPYRIGHT, 1947, BY DOROTHY LANGLEY PUBLISHED BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER, INC. ROCKEFELLER CENTER, 12gO SIXTH AVENUE, NEWYORK20, N. Y. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AMERICA... more »N BOOK-STRATFORD PRESS, INC.. NEW YORK TO JOE, with gratitude and love The characters and situations in this book are wholly fictional and imaginative do not portray, and are not intended to portray, any actual persons, organizations or parties. 1 HENRY, those marigolds need attention, said Amelia. Henry Bremble looked at her over his glasses. If there was one flower he hated more than another and he hated them all, though reluctantly admiring some of the things they did with themselves in the blossoming season it was the tall orange marigold, Calendula gigantica officinalis, of which there was great plenty in his garden. Whats the matter with them now he asked. Amelia looked patient. I should think you could see for yourself. They need tying up. Theyre growing so fast, theyre already flopping all over the place. It makes the whole garden look messy. I dont see how you can call your self a gardener and never notice I dont call myself a gardener, Mr. Bremble protested, not for the first time. You call me one. He spoke resentfully, for Amelia had always been too quick for him and he had been helplessly gardening ever since the day when, early in their marriage, he had learned to his astonishment from her lips that he adored it. Henry simply adores gardening, she had said, in his presence, to their next-door neighbor. Hes never so happy anywhere as he is right here among his buds and blossoms. She gave a 3 trill of purposeful, determined laughter, making her husbands head feel as though it had been severely patted. The neighbor, a man of genial girth, comfortably estab lished in a canvas deck chair with a book and a julep, looked at Mr. Bremble with a good deal of concentrated dislike. That so he said. Amelia nodded brightly. Its such a lovely hobby, I always think. The loathly word came from her without loathing, and Henry Bremble, squarely confronted for the first time with the truth about what his marriage had gotten him into, stood aghast. He had been a cheerful, quiet, unassuming young man with a secret passion for quoting the English poets and an eager, sensitive consideration for others that caused him to quote them almost exclusively to himself. Aside from this trait, surely a harmless one, there had been nothing re markable about him. But at least he had been a man. Amelias words had turned him into a fugitive, and he had been fleeing from her ever since. He listened to her now as she went on about the mari golds, progressing, after she had sufficiently reproved him, to the cooing patronage with which she made it a point to speak of flowers, children, and other properties generally assumed to be rare and exquisite beyond the power of ordinary speech to describe. Such a brave little flower, I always think, she said now, of Calendula gigantica offi cinalis, and so grateful for every tiny thing one does for it. Shame on you, Henry, to neglect the poor little golden darlings the way you do Mr. Bremble closed his eyes. The poor little golden dar lings In his minds eye he saw the marigolds tower above him, as some of them almost would when they reached their 4 blossoming height, for he was not of imposing stature, leer ing at him with a hundred orange eyes. The poor little golden darlings. . . . He opened his eyes and took a good look at Amelia. It was unthinkable that she should coo. She was a large, solid woman and already, at thirty-seven, displayed an alarming resemblance to her mother, who also cooed when she thought it suitable. Mr...« less