much people.
Amory: I was in love with a people once.
Rosalind: So?
Amory: Oh, yes—her name was Isabelle—nothing at all to her except what I read into her.
Rosalind: What happened?
Amory: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I was—then she threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical, you know.
Rosalind: What do you mean impractical?
Amory: Oh—drive a car, but can’t change a tire.
Rosalind: What are you going to do?
Amory: Can’t say—run for President, write——
Rosalind: Greenwich Village?
Amory: Good heavens, no—I said write—not drink.
Rosalind: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely.
Amory: I feel as if I’d known you for ages.
Rosalind: Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story?
Amory: No—I was going to make it French. I was Louis Xiv and you were one of my—my—(Changing his tone.) Suppose—we fell in love.
Rosalind: I ve suggested pretending.
Amory: If we did it would be very big.
Rosalind: Why?
Amory: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.
Rosalind: (Turning her lips up) Pretend.
(Very deliberately they kiss.)
Amory: I can’t say sweet things. But you are beautiful.
Rosalind: Not that.
Amory: What then?
Rosalind: (Sadly) Oh, nothing—only I want sentiment, real sentiment—and I never find it.
Amory: I never find anything else in the world—and I loathe it.
Rosalind: It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic taste.
(Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the room. Rosalind rises.)
Rosalind: Listen! they’re playing “Kiss Me Again.”
(He looks at her.)
Amory: Well?
Rosalind: Well?
Amory: (Softly—the battle lost) I love you.
Rosalind: I love you—now.
(They kiss.)
Amory: Oh, God, what have I done?
Rosalind: Nothing. Oh, don’t talk. Kiss me again.
Amory: I don’t know why or how, but I love you—from the moment I saw you.
Rosalind: Me too—I—I—oh, to-night’s to-night.
(Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: “Oh, excuse me,” and goes.)
Rosalind: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don’t let me go—I don’t care who knows what I do.
Amory: Say it!
Rosalind: I love you—now. (They part.) Oh—I am very youthful, thank God—and rather beautiful, thank God—and happy, thank God, thank God—(She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy, adds) Poor Amory!
(He kisses her again.)
Kismet.
Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply and passionately in love. The critical qualities which had spoiled for each of them a dozen romances were dulled by the great wave of emotion that washed over them.
“It may be an insane love-affair,” she told her anxious mother, “but it’s not inane.”
The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency early in March, where he alternated between astonishing bursts of rather exceptional work and wild dreams of becoming suddenly rich and touring Italy with Rosalind.
They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly every evening—always in a sort of breathless hush, as if they feared that any minute the spell would break and drop them out of this paradise of rose and flame. But the spell became a trance, seemed to increase from day to day; they began to talk of marrying in July—in June. All life was transmitted into terms of their love, all experience, all desires, all ambitions, were nullified—their senses of humor crawled into corners to sleep; their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely regretted juvenalia.
For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement and was hurrying into line with his generation.
A Little Interlude.
Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as inevitably his—the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim streets … it seemed that he had closed the book of fading harmonies at last and stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Everywhere these countless lights, this promise of a night of streets and singing—he moved in a half-dream through the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind hurrying toward him with eager feet from every corner…. How the unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even his dreams now were faint violins drifting like summer sounds upon the summer air.
The room was in darkness except for the faint glow of Tom’s cigarette where he lounged by the open window. As the door shut behind him, Amory stood a moment with his back against it.
“Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business to-day?”
Amory sprawled on a couch.
“I loathed it as usual!” The momentary vision of the bustling agency was displaced quickly by another picture.
“My God! She’s wonderful!”
Tom sighed.
“I can’t tell you,” repeated Amory, “just how wonderful she is. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want any one to know.”
Another sigh came from the window—quite a resigned sigh.
“She’s life and hope and happiness, my whole world now.”
He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid.
“Oh, Golly, Tom!”
Bitter Sweet.
“Sit like we do,” she whispered.
He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could nestle inside them.
“I knew you’d come to-night,” she said softly, “like summer, just when I needed you most … darling … darling…”
His lips moved lazily over her face.
“You taste so good,” he sighed.
“How do you mean, lover?”
“Oh, just sweet, just sweet…” he held her closer.
“Amory,” she whispered, “when you’re ready for me