Romance Times Three

He had a peg leg and an ace up his sleeve.  His name was Timothy Angus Jones, and I had been given his phone number. I almost didn't call, because the other connection Martha and Quentin had in mind for this, my first trip abroad, turned out to be so rude to the waiter during our lunch that I coudn't bring myself to see him again--even though that meeting might well have included tea with Bernard Berenson. A once-in-a-lifetime chance walked away from because I was taught that manners count most when you are dealing with people who are not in a position to tell you to go to hell.

So I only phoned Timothy because I was unexpectedly lonely in London. I told him who gave me his name and where I was staying. And he, after perhaps forty-five seconds, said a cool goodbye. Not only didn't he ask me out, he didn't ask me anything. I sat staring at the phone in disbelief. Mind you, the friends who had recommended both these men had excellent manners. About Timothy, moreover, they had said that he was "the most charming man in London."

The phone rang. Gingerly--phones were not to be trusted--I picked it up. Again quickly, Timothy Jones asked me to lunch that very day--in less than two hours!--without offering any explanation for his behavior either time. (Of course he did, eventually, but that's not an essential part of this memory.)

Well, he was the most charming man in London. Not that I had many with whom to compare him, but when--if--you meet a man that charming, you just know there aren't twenty more like him within any city's limits.

So charming was he that, halfway through our lunch, he invited me to meet his mother. No, he wasn't that smitten--or foolhardy. His mother was Enid Bagnold. (If you don't know what she wrote, you should...well, actually you do know one of  her books--or at least the movie. But she wrote better books and terrific plays.)  When I asked for and got permission from my boss at Crown Publishers to extend my stay in London, Timothy also invited me to stay in his flat. I already knew there was not a guest bedroom. Or even a futon. (Did they or even the word exist back then? No matter.) I moved in.

The next three weeks were a fantasy for this girl from the Bronx. We did visit Enid Bagnold--and her husband. Timothy's father was Sir Roderick Jones, all five-foot-three of him wildly delightful and not merely because he chased me around their gazebo.  That night, at dinner, when Sir Roderick joined the table, he turned to me and said, "Miss Stein, my children do not revere me enough. What shall I do?" And I, twenty-two and dazzled but not enough to keep my mouth shut, said, "Sir Roderick, if they revered you any more, you'd have to be in a mausoleum."

That visit was more flull of romance than I dreamed possible, or experienced again. But I am not greedy. Falling in love with Timothy, his mother, and his father--and having all three reciprocate my enchantment, well, once was enough.