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

funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day about a sense of humor being——”

      She was looking at him with something that was not a smile, rather the faint, mirthless echo of a smile, in the corners of her mouth.

      “Oh, shut up!” she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway toward her room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion.

      “Damn!”

      When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her shoulders, and they descended the stairs in a silence that endured through dinner.

      “Isabelle,” he began rather testily, as they arranged themselves in the car, bound for a dance at the Greenwich Country Club, “you’re angry, and I’ll be, too, in a minute. Let’s kiss and make up.”

      Isabelle considered glumly.

      “I hate to be laughed at,” she said finally.

      “I won’t laugh any more. I’m not laughing now, am I?”

      “You did.”

      “Oh, don’t be so darned feminine.”

      Her lips curled slightly.

      “I’ll be anything I want.”

      Amory kept his temper with difficulty. He became aware that he had not an ounce of real affection for Isabelle, but her coldness piqued him. He wanted to kiss her, kiss her a lot, because then he knew he could leave in the morning and not care. On the contrary, if he didn’t kiss her, it would worry him…. It would interfere vaguely with his idea of himself as a conqueror. It wasn’t dignified to come off second best, pleading, with a doughty warrior like Isabelle.

      Perhaps she suspected this. At any rate, Amory watched the night that should have been the consummation of romance glide by with great moths overhead and the heavy fragrance of roadside gardens, but without those broken words, those little sighs….

      Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil’s food in the pantry, and Amory announced a decision.

      “I’m leaving early in the morning.”

      “Why?”

      “Why not?” he countered.

      “There’s no need.”

      “However, I’m going.”

      “Well, if you insist on being ridiculous——”

      “Oh, don’t put it that way,” he objected.

      “—just because I won’t let you kiss me. Do you think——”

      “Now, Isabelle,” he interrupted, “you know it’s not that—even suppose it is. We’ve reached the stage where we either ought to kiss—or—or—nothing. It isn’t as if you were refusing on moral grounds.”

      She hesitated.

      “I really don’t know what to think about you,” she began, in a feeble, perverse attempt at conciliation. “You’re so funny.”

      “How?”

      “Well, I thought you had a lot of self-confidence and all that; remember you told me the other day that you could do anything you wanted, or get anything you wanted?”

      Amory flushed. He had told her a lot of things.

      “Yes.”

      “Well, you didn’t seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe you’re just plain conceited.”

      “No, I’m not,” he hesitated. “At Princeton——”

      “Oh, you and Princeton! You’d think that was the world, the way you talk! Perhaps you can write better than anybody else on your old Princetonian; maybe the freshmen do think you’re important——”

      “You don’t understand——”

      “Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “I do, because you’re always talking about yourself and I used to like it; now I don’t.”

      “Have I to-night?”

      “That’s just the point,” insisted Isabelle. “You got all upset to-night. You just sat and watched my eyes. Besides, I have to think all the time I’m talking to you—you’re so critical.”

      “I make you think, do I?” Amory repeated with a touch of vanity.

      “You’re a nervous strain”—this emphatically—“and when you analyze every little emotion and instinct I just don’t have ’em.”

      “I know.” Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly.

      “Let’s go.” She stood up.

      He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs.

      “What train can I get?”

      “There’s one about 9:11 if you really must go.”

      “Yes, I’ve got to go, really. Good night.”

      “Good night.”

      They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his room he thought he caught just the faintest cloud of discontent in her face. He lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much he cared—how much of his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity—whether he was, after all, temperamentally unfitted for romance.

      When he awoke, it was with a glad flood of consciousness. The early wind stirred the chintz curtains at the windows and he was idly puzzled not to be in his room at Princeton with his school football picture over the bureau and the Triangle Club on the wall opposite. Then the grandfather’s clock in the hall outside struck eight, and the memory of the night before came to him. He was out of bed, dressing, like the wind; he must get out of the house before he saw Isabelle. What had seemed a melancholy happening, now seemed a tiresome anticlimax. He was dressed at half past, so he sat down by the window; felt that the sinews of his heart were twisted somewhat more than he had thought. What an ironic mockery the morning seemed!—bright and sunny, and full of the smell of the garden; hearing Mrs. Borgé’s voice in the sun-parlor below, he wondered where was Isabelle.

      There was a knock at the door.

      “The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir.”

      He returned to his contemplation of the outdoors, and began repeating over and over, mechanically, a verse from Browning, which he had once quoted to Isabelle in a letter:

      “Each life unfulfilled, you see,

      It hangs still, patchy and scrappy;

      We have not sighed deep, laughed free,

      Starved, feasted, despaired—been happy.”

      But his life would not be unfulfilled. He took a sombre satisfaction in thinking that perhaps all along she had been nothing except what he had read into her; that this was her high point, that no one else would ever make her think. Yet that was what she had objected to in him; and Amory was suddenly tired of thinking, thinking!

      “Damn her!” he said bitterly, “she’s spoiled my year!”

      The Superman Grows Careless.

      On a dusty day in September Amory arrived in Princeton and joined the sweltering crowd of conditioned men who thronged the streets. It seemed a stupid way to commence his upper-class years, to spend four hours a morning in the stuffy room of a tutoring school, imbibing the infinite boredom of conic sections. Mr. Rooney, pander to the dull, conducted the class and smoked innumerable Pall Malls as he drew diagrams and worked equations from six in the morning until midnight.

      “Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point be?”