The Beautiful and Damned. Francis Scott Fitzgerald

you don't claim to be unloved!"

      "Well, I suppose not."

      "Then why haven't you a biography? Haven't you ever had a kiss that counted?" As the words left his lips he drew in his breath sharply as though to suck them back. This baby!

      "I don't know what you mean 'counts,'" she objected.

      "I wish you'd tell me how old you are."

      "Twenty-two," she said, meeting his eyes gravely. "How old did you think?"

      "About eighteen."

      "I'm going to start being that. I don't like being twenty-two. I hate it more than anything in the world."

      "Being twenty-two?"

      "No. Getting old and everything. Getting married."

      "Don't you ever want to marry?"

      "I don't want to have responsibility and a lot of children to take care of."

      Evidently she did not doubt that on her lips all things were good. He waited rather breathlessly for her next remark, expecting it to follow up her last. She was smiling, without amusement but pleasantly, and after an interval half a dozen words fell into the space between them:

      "I wish I had some gum-drops."

      "You shall!" He beckoned to a waiter and sent him to the cigar counter.

      "D'you mind? I love gum-drops. Everybody kids me about it because I'm always whacking away at one – whenever my daddy's not around."

      "Not at all. – Who are all these children?" he asked suddenly. "Do you know them all?"

      "Why – no, but they're from – oh, from everywhere, I suppose. Don't you ever come here?"

      "Very seldom. I don't care particularly for 'nice girls.'"

      Immediately he had her attention. She turned a definite shoulder to the dancers, relaxed in her chair, and demanded:

      "What do you do with yourself?"

      Thanks to a cocktail Anthony welcomed the question. In a mood to talk, he wanted, moreover, to impress this girl whose interest seemed so tantalizingly elusive – she stopped to browse in unexpected pastures, hurried quickly over the inobviously obvious. He wanted to pose. He wanted to appear suddenly to her in novel and heroic colors. He wanted to stir her from that casualness she showed toward everything except herself.

      "I do nothing," he began, realizing simultaneously that his words were to lack the debonair grace he craved for them. "I do nothing, for there's nothing I can do that's worth doing."

      "Well?" He had neither surprised her nor even held her, yet she had certainly understood him, if indeed he had said aught worth understanding.

      "Don't you approve of lazy men?"

      She nodded.

      "I suppose so, if they're gracefully lazy. Is that possible for an American?"

      "Why not?" he demanded, discomfited.

      But her mind had left the subject and wandered up ten floors.

      "My daddy's mad at me," she observed dispassionately.

      "Why? But I want to know just why it's impossible for an American to be gracefully idle" – his words gathered conviction – "it astonishes me. It – it – I don't understand why people think that every young man ought to go down-town and work ten hours a day for the best twenty years of his life at dull, unimaginative work, certainly not altruistic work."

      He broke off. She watched him inscrutably. He waited for her to agree or disagree, but she did neither.

      "Don't you ever form judgments on things?" he asked with some exasperation.

      She shook her head and her eyes wandered back to the dancers as she answered:

      "I don't know. I don't know anything about – what you should do, or what anybody should do."

      She confused him and hindered the flow of his ideas. Self-expression had never seemed at once so desirable and so impossible.

      "Well," he admitted apologetically, "neither do I, of course, but – "

      "I just think of people," she continued, "whether they seem right where they are and fit into the picture. I don't mind if they don't do anything. I don't see why they should; in fact it always astonishes me when anybody does anything."

      "You don't want to do anything?"

      "I want to sleep."

      For a second he was startled, almost as though she had meant this literally.

      "Sleep?"

      "Sort of. I want to just be lazy and I want some of the people around me to be doing things, because that makes me feel comfortable and safe – and I want some of them to be doing nothing at all, because they can be graceful and companionable for me. But I never want to change people or get excited over them."

      "You're a quaint little determinist," laughed Anthony. "It's your world, isn't it?"

      "Well – " she said with a quick upward glance, "isn't it? As long as I'm – young."

      She had paused slightly before the last word and Anthony suspected that she had started to say "beautiful." It was undeniably what she had intended.

      Her eyes brightened and he waited for her to enlarge on the theme. He had drawn her out, at any rate – he bent forward slightly to catch the words.

      But "Let's dance!" was all she said.

ADMIRATION

      That winter afternoon at the Plaza was the first of a succession of "dates" Anthony made with her in the blurred and stimulating days before Christmas. Invariably she was busy. What particular strata of the city's social life claimed her he was a long time finding out. It seemed to matter very little. She attended the semi-public charity dances at the big hotels; he saw her several times at dinner parties in Sherry's, and once as he waited for her to dress, Mrs. Gilbert, apropos of her daughter's habit of "going," rattled off an amazing holiday programme that included half a dozen dances to which Anthony had received cards.

      He made engagements with her several times for lunch and tea – the former were hurried and, to him at least, rather unsatisfactory occasions, for she was sleepy-eyed and casual, incapable of concentrating upon anything or of giving consecutive attention to his remarks. When after two of these sallow meals he accused her of tendering him the skin and bones of the day she laughed and gave him a tea-time three days off. This was infinitely more satisfactory.

      One Sunday afternoon just before Christmas he called up and found her in the lull directly after some important but mysterious quarrel: she informed him in a tone of mingled wrath and amusement that she had sent a man out of her apartment – here Anthony speculated violently – and that the man had been giving a little dinner for her that very night and that of course she wasn't going. So Anthony took her to supper.

      "Let's go to something!" she proposed as they went down in the elevator. "I want to see a show, don't you?"

      Inquiry at the hotel ticket desk disclosed only two Sunday night "concerts."

      "They're always the same," she complained unhappily, "same old Yiddish comedians. Oh, let's go somewhere!"

      To conceal a guilty suspicion that he should have arranged a performance of some kind for her approval Anthony affected a knowing cheerfulness.

      "We'll go to a good cabaret."

      "I've seen every one in town."

      "Well, we'll find a new one."

      She was in wretched humor; that was evident. Her gray eyes were granite now indeed. When she wasn't speaking she stared straight in front of her as if at some distasteful abstraction in the lobby.

      "Well, come on, then."

      He followed her, a graceful girl even in her enveloping fur, out to a taxicab, and, with an air of having a definite place in mind, instructed the driver to go over to Broadway and then turn south. He made several casual attempts at conversation but as she adopted an impenetrable