The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald. F. Scott Fitzgerald

something he had never before cared to remember—that Morris Hasylton, who had built his daughter a palace in St. Petersburg, had also started from nothing at all.

      Simultaneously another emotion possessed him, less strange, less dynamic but equally American—the emotion of curiosity. In case he did—well, in case life should ever make it possible for him to seek her out, he should at least know her name.

      He jumped to his feet, fumbled excitedly at the carriage handle and jumped from the train. Tossing his valise into the check room he started at a run for the American consulate.

      “A yacht came in this morning,” he said hurriedly to a clerk, “an American yacht—the Privateer. I want to know who owns it.”

      “Just a minute,” said the clerk, looking at him oddly. “I’ll try to find out.”

      After what seemed to Val an interminable time he returned.

      “Why, just a minute,” he repeated hesitantly. “We’re—it seems we’re finding out.”

      “Did the yacht come?”

      “Oh, yes—it’s here all right. At least I think so. If you’ll just wait in that chair.”

      After another ten minutes Val looked impatiently at his watch. If they didn’t hurry he’d probably miss his train. He made a nervous movement as if to get up from his chair.

      “Please sit still,” said the clerk, glancing at him quickly from his desk. “I ask you. Just sit down in that chair.”

      Val stared at him. How could it possibly matter to the clerk whether or not he waited?

      “I’ll miss my train,” he said impatiently. “I’m sorry to have given you all this bother——”

      “Please sit still! We’re glad to get it off our hands. You see, we’ve been waiting for your inquiry for—ah—three years.”

      Val jumped to his feet and jammed his hat on his head.

      “Why didn’t you tell me that?” he demanded angrily.

      “Because we had to get word to our—our client. Please don’t go! It’s—ah, it’s too late.”

      Val turned. Someone slim and radiant with dark frightened eyes was standing behind him, framed against the sunshine of the doorway.

      “Why——”

      Val’s lips parted, but no words came through. She took a step toward him.

      “I——” She looked at him helplessly, her eyes filling with tears. “I just wanted to say hello,” she murmured. “I’ve come back for three years just because I wanted to say hello.”

      Still Val was silent.

      “You might answer,” she said impatiently. “You might answer when I’d—when I’d just about begun to think you’d been killed in the war.” She turned to the clerk. “Please introduce us!” she cried. “You see, I can’t say hello to him when we don’t even know each other’s names.”

      It’s the thing to distrust these international marriages, of course. It’s an American tradition that they always turn out badly, and we are accustomed to such headlines as: “Would Trade Coronet for True American Love, Says Duchess,” and “Claims Count Mendicant Tortured Toledo Wife.” The other sort of headlines are never printed, for who would want to read: “Castle is Love Nest, Asserts Former Georgia Belle,” or “Duke and Packer’s Daughter Celebrate Golden Honeymoon.”

      So far there have been no headlines at all about the young Rostoffs. Prince Val is much too absorbed in that string of moon-light-blue taxi-cabs which he manipulates with such unusual efficiency, to give out interviews. He and his wife only leave New York once a year—but there is still a boatman who rejoices when the Privateer steams into Cannes harbor on a mid-April night.

      — ◆ —

One of my Oldest Friends.

      Woman’s Home Companion (September 1925)

      All afternoon Marion had been happy. She wandered from room to room of their little apartment, strolling into the nursery to help the nurse-girl feed the children from dripping spoons, and then reading for awhile on their new sofa, the most extravagant thing they had bought in their five years of marriage.

      When she heard Michael’s step in the hall she turned her head and listened; she liked to hear him walk, carefully always as if there were children sleeping close by.

      “Michael.”

      “Oh—hello.” He came into the room, a tall, broad, thin man of thirty with a high forehead and kind black eyes.

      “I’ve got some news for you,” he said immediately. “Charley Hart’s getting married.”

      “No!”

      He nodded.

      “Who’s he marrying?”

      “One of the little Lawrence girls from home.” He hesitated. “She’s arriving in New York tomorrow and I think we ought to do something for them while she’s here. Charley’s about my oldest friend.”

      “Let’s have them up for dinner—”

      “I’d like to do something more than that,” he interrupted. “Maybe a theatre party. You see—” Again he hesitated. “It’d be a nice courtesy to Charley.”

      “All right,” agreed Marion, “but we mustn’t spend much—and I don’t think we’re under any obligation.”

      He looked at her in surprise.

      “I mean,” went on Marion, “we—we hardly see Charley anymore. We hardly ever see him at all.”

      “Well, you know how it is in New York,” explained Michael apologetically. “He’s just as busy as I am. He has made a big name for himself and I suppose he’s pretty much in demand all the time.”

      They always spoke of Charley Hart as their oldest friend. Five years before, when Michael and Marion were first married, the three of them had come to New York from the same western city. For over a year they had seen Charley nearly every day and no domestic adventure, no uprush of their hopes and dreams, was too insignificant for his ear. His arrival in times of difficulty never failed to give a pleasant, humorous cast to the situation.

      Of course Marion’s babies had made a difference, and it was several years now since they had called up Charley at midnight to say that the pipes had broken or the ceiling was falling in on their heads; but so gradually had they drifted apart that Michael still spoke of Charley rather proudly as if he saw him every day. For awhile Charley dined with them once a month and all three found a great deal to say; but the meetings never broke up anymore with, “I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.” Instead it was, “You’ll have to come to dinner more often,” or even, after three or four years, “We’ll see you soon.”

      “Oh, I’m perfectly willing to give a little party,” said Marion now, looking speculatively about her. “Did you suggest a definite date?”

      “Week from Saturday.” His dark eyes roamed the floor vaguely. “We can take up the rugs or something.”

      “No.” She shook her head. “We’ll have a dinner, eight people, very formal and everything, and afterwards we’ll play cards.”

      She was already speculating on whom to invite. Charley of course, being an artist, probably saw interesting people every day.

      “We could have the Willoughbys,” she suggested doubtfully. “She’s on the stage or something—and he writes movies.”

      “No—that’s not it,” objected Michael. “He probably meets that crowd at lunch and dinner every day until