Tender is the Night. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

bird at all, do you think? You’re a Russian wolfhound.”

      Anthony remembered that they were white and always looked unnaturally hungry. But then they were usually photographed with dukes and princesses, so he was properly flattered.

      “Dick’s a fox terrier, a trick fox terrier,” she continued.

      “And Maury’s a cat.” Simultaneously it occurred to him how like Bloeckman was to a robust and offensive hog. But he preserved a discreet silence.

      Later, as they parted, Anthony asked when he might see her again.

      “Don’t you ever make long engagements?” he pleaded, “even if it’s a week ahead, I think it’d be fun to spend a whole day together, morning and afternoon both.”

      “It would be, wouldn’t it?” She thought for a moment. “Let’s do it next Sunday.”

      “All right. I’ll map out a programme that’ll take up every minute.”

      He did. He even figured to a nicety what would happen in the two hours when she would come to his apartment for tea: how the good Bounds would have the windows wide to let in the fresh breeze—but a fire going also lest there be chill in the air—and how there would be clusters of flowers about in big cool bowls that he would buy for the occasion. They would sit on the lounge.

      And when the day came they did sit upon the lounge. After a while Anthony kissed her because it came about quite naturally; he found sweetness sleeping still upon her lips, and felt that he had never been away. The fire was bright and the breeze sighing in through the curtains brought a mellow damp, promising May and world of summer. His soul thrilled to remote harmonies; he heard the strum of far guitars and waters lapping on a warm Mediterranean shore—for he was young now as he would never be again, and more triumphant than death.

      Six o’clock stole down too soon and rang the querulous melody of St. Anne’s chimes on the corner. Through the gathering dusk they strolled to the Avenue, where the crowds, like prisoners released, were walking with elastic step at last after the long winter, and the tops of the busses were thronged with congenial kings and the shops full of fine soft things for the summer, the rare summer, the gay promising summer that seemed for love what the winter was for money. Life was singing for his supper on the corner! Life was handing round cocktails in the street! Old women there were in that crowd who felt that they could have run and won a hundred-yard dash!

      In bed that night with the lights out and the cool room swimming with moonlight, Anthony lay awake and played with every minute of the day like a child playing in turn with each one of a pile of long-wanted Christmas toys. He had told her gently, almost in the middle of a kiss, that he loved her, and she had smiled and held him closer and murmured, “I’m glad,” looking into his eyes. There had been a new quality in her attitude, a new growth of sheer physical attraction toward him and a strange emotional tenseness, that was enough to make him clinch his hands and draw in his breath at the recollection. He had felt nearer to her than ever before. In a rare delight he cried aloud to the room that he loved her.

      He phoned next morning—no hesitation now, no uncertainty—instead a delirious excitement that doubled and trebled when he heard her voice:

      “Good morning—Gloria.”

      “Good morning.”

      “That’s all I called you up to say-dear.”

      “I’m glad you did.”

      “I wish I could see you.”

      “You will, to-morrow night.”

      “That’s a long time, isn’t it?”

      “Yes—” Her voice was reluctant. His hand tightened on the receiver.

      “Couldn’t I come to-night?” He dared anything in the glory and revelation of that almost whispered “yes.”

      “I have a date.”

      “Oh—”

      “But I might—I might be able to break it.”

      “Oh!”—a sheer cry, a rhapsody. “Gloria?”

      “What?”

      “I love you.”

      Another pause and then:

      “I—I’m glad.”

      Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery. But oh, Anthony’s face as he walked down the tenth-floor corridor of the Plaza that night! His dark eyes were gleaming—around his mouth were lines it was a kindness to see. He was handsome then if never before, bound for one of those immortal moments which come so radiantly that their remembered light is enough to see by for years.

      He knocked and, at a word, entered. Gloria, dressed in simple pink, starched and fresh as a flower, was across the room, standing very still, and looking at him wide-eyed.

      As he closed the door behind him she gave a little cry and moved swiftly over the intervening space, her arms rising in a premature caress as she came near. Together they crushed out the stiff folds of her dress in one triumphant and enduring embrace.

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