THE COMPLETE WORKS OF F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

of them were Englishmen. I don’t think there’s any higher type in the world than a first-rate Englishman, do you? If there is I haven’t met him. This man — oh, it’s a long story. I hate long stories, don’t you?”

      “And how!” said Collis.

      “Why, no — I like them if they’re good.”

      “That’s something you do so well, Dick. You can keep a party moving by just a little sentence or a saying here and there. I think that’s a wonderful talent.”

      “It’s a trick,” he said gently. That made three of her opinions he disagreed with.

      “Of course I like formality — I like things to be just so, and on the grand scale. I know you probably don’t but you must admit it’s a sign of solidity in me.”

      Dick did not even bother to dissent from this.

      “Of course I know people say, Baby Warren is racing around over Europe, chasing one novelty after another, and missing the best things in life, but I think on the contrary that I’m one of the few people who really go after the best things. I’ve known the most interesting people of my time.” Her voice blurred with the tinny drumming of another guitar number, but she called over it, “I’ve made very few big mistakes—”

      “ — Only the very big ones, Baby.”

      She had caught something facetious in his eye and she changed the subject. It seemed impossible for them to hold anything in common. But he admired something in her, and he deposited her at the Excelsior with a series of compliments that left her shimmering.

       Rosemary insisted on treating Dick to lunch next day. They went to a little trattoria kept by an Italian who had worked in America, and ate ham and eggs and waffles. Afterward, they went to the hotel. Dick’s discovery that he was not in love with her, nor she with him, had added to rather than diminished his passion for her. Now that he knew he would not enter further into her life, she became the strange woman for him. He supposed many men meant no more than that when they said they were in love — not a wild submergence of soul, a dipping of all colors into an obscuring dye, such as his love for Nicole had been. Certain thoughts about Nicole, that she should die, sink into mental darkness, love another man, made him physically sick.

      Nicotera was in Rosemary’s sitting-room, chattering about a professional matter. When Rosemary gave him his cue to go, he left with humorous protests and a rather insolent wink at Dick. As usual the phone clamored and Rosemary was engaged at it for ten minutes, to Dick’s increasing impatience.

      “Let’s go up to my room,” he suggested, and she agreed.

      She lay across his knees on a big sofa; he ran his fingers through the lovely forelocks of her hair.

      “Let me be curious about you again?” he asked.

      “What do you want to know?”

      “About men. I’m curious, not to say prurient.”

      “You mean how long after I met you?”

      “Or before.”

      “Oh, no.” She was shocked. “There was nothing before. You were the first man I cared about. You’re still the only man I really care about.” She considered. “It was about a year, I think.”

      “Who was it?”

      “Oh, a man.”

      He closed in on her evasion.

      “I’ll bet I can tell you about it: the first affair was unsatisfactory and after that there was a long gap. The second was better, but you hadn’t been in love with the man in the first place. The third was all right—”

      Torturing himself he ran on. “Then you had one real affair that fell of its own weight, and by that time you were getting afraid that you wouldn’t have anything to give to the man you finally loved.” He felt increasingly Victorian. “Afterwards there were half a dozen just episodic affairs, right up to the present. Is that close?”

      She laughed between amusement and tears.

      “It’s about as wrong as it could be,” she said, to Dick’s relief. “But some day I’m going to find somebody and love him and love him and never let him go.”

      Now his phone rang and Dick recognized Nicotera’s voice, asking for Rosemary. He put his palm over the transmitter.

      “Do you want to talk to him?”

      She went to the phone and jabbered in a rapid Italian Dick could not understand.

      “This telephoning takes time,” he said. “It’s after four and I have an engagement at five. You better go play with Signor Nicotera.”

      “Don’t be silly.”

      “Then I think that while I’m here you ought to count him out.”

      “It’s difficult.” She was suddenly crying. “Dick, I do love you, never anybody like you. But what have you got for me?”

      “What has Nicotera got for anybody?”

      “That’s different.”

      — Because youth called to youth.

      “He’s a spic!” he said. He was frantic with jealousy, he didn’t want to be hurt again.

      “He’s only a baby,” she said, sniffling. “You know I’m yours first.”

      In reaction he put his arms about her but she relaxed wearily backward; he held her like that for a moment as in the end of an adagio, her eyes closed, her hair falling straight back like that of a girl drowned.

      “Dick, let me go. I never felt so mixed up in my life.”

      He was a gruff red bird and instinctively she drew away from him as his unjustified jealousy began to snow over the qualities of consideration and understanding with which she felt at home.

      “I want to know the truth,” he said.

      “Yes, then. We’re a lot together, he wants to marry me, but I don’t want to. What of it? What do you expect me to do? You never asked me to marry you. Do you want me to play around forever with halfwits like Collis Clay?”

      “You were with Nicotera last night?”

      “That’s none of your business,” she sobbed. “Excuse me, Dick, it is your business. You and Mother are the only two people in the world I care about.”

      “How about Nicotera?”

      “How do I know?”

      She had achieved the elusiveness that gives hidden significance to the least significant remarks.

      “Is it like you felt toward me in Paris?”

      “I feel comfortable and happy when I’m with you. In Paris it was different. But you never know how you once felt. Do you?”

      He got up and began collecting his evening clothes — if he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again.

      “I don’t care about Nicotera!” she declared. “But I’ve got to go to Livorno with the company tomorrow. Oh, why did this have to happen?” There was a new flood of tears. “It’s such a shame. Why did you come here? Why couldn’t we just have the memory anyhow? I feel as if I’d quarrelled with Mother.”

      As he began to dress, she got up and went to the door.

      “I won’t go to the party tonight.” It was her last effort. “I’ll stay with you. I don’t want to go anyhow.”

      The tide began to flow again, but he retreated from it.

      “I’ll be in my room,” she said. “Good-by, Dick.”