Read Online Babylon Revisited by F. Scott Fitzgerald, JAMES L. W. WEST III - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: F. Scott Fitzgerald, JAMES L. W. WEST III
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not——”
A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary—much easier to talk to.
“My name’s Dean, Philip Dean,” he said cheerfully. “You don’t remember me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett.”
Edith looked up quickly.
“Yes, I went up with him twice—to the Pump and Slipper and the Junior prom.”
“You’ve seen him, of course,” said Dean carelessly. “He’s here tonight. I saw him just a minute ago.”
Edith started. Yet she had felt quite sure he would be here.
“Why, no, I haven’t——”
A fat man with red hair cut in.
“Hello, Edith,” he began.
“Why—hello there——”
She slipped, stumbled lightly.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she murmured mechanically.
She had seen Gordon—Gordon very white and listless, leaning against the side of a doorway, smoking and looking into the ballroom. Edith could see that his face was thin and wan—that the hand he raised to his lips with a cigarette was trembling. They were dancing quite close to him now.
“—They invite so darn many extra fellas that you—” the short man was saying.
“Hello, Gordon,” called Edith over her partner’s shoulder. Her heart was pounding wildly.
His large dark eyes were fixed on her. He took a step in her direction. Her partner turned her away—she heard his voice bleating——
“—but half the stags get lit and leave before long, so——”
Then a low tone at her side.
“May I, please?”
She was dancing suddenly with Gordon; one of his arms was around her; she felt it tighten spasmodically; felt his hand on her back withthe fingers spread. Her hand holding the little lace handkerchief was crushed in his.
“Why Gordon,” she began breathlessly.
“Hello, Edith.”
She slipped again—was tossed forward by her recovery until her face touched the black cloth of his dinner coat. She loved him—she knew she loved him—then for a minute there was silence while a strange feeling of uneasiness crept over her. Something was wrong.
Of a sudden her heart wrenched, and turned over as she realized what it was. He was pitiful and wretched, a little drunk, and miserably tired.
“Oh—” she cried involuntarily.
His eyes looked down at her. She saw suddenly that they were blood-streaked and rolling uncontrollably.
“Gordon,” she murmured, “we’ll sit down; I want to sit down.”
They were nearly in mid-floor, but she had seen two men start toward her from opposite sides of the room, so she halted, seized Gordon’s limp hand and led him bumping through the crowd, her mouth tight shut, her face a little pale under her rouge, her eyes trembling with tears.
She found a place high up on the soft-carpeted stairs, and he sat down heavily beside her.
“Well,” he began, staring at her unsteadily, “I certainly am glad to see you, Edith.”
She looked at him without answering. The effect of this on her was immeasurable. For years she had seen men in various stages of intoxication, from uncles all the way down to chauffeurs, and her feelings had varied from amusement to disgust, but here for the first time she was seized with a new feeling—an unutterable horror.
“Gordon,” she said accusingly and almost crying, “you look like the devil.”
He nodded. “I’ve had trouble, Edith.”
“Trouble?”
“All sorts of trouble. Don’t you say anything to the family, but I’m all gone to pieces. I’m a mess, Edith.”
His lower lip was sagging. He seemed scarcely to see her.
“Can’t you—can’t you,” she hesitated, “can’t you tell me about it, Gordon? You know I’m always interested in you.”
She bit her lip—she had intended to say something stronger, but found at the end that she couldn’t bring it out.
Gordon shook his head dully. “I can’t tell you.
A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary—much easier to talk to.
“My name’s Dean, Philip Dean,” he said cheerfully. “You don’t remember me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett.”
Edith looked up quickly.
“Yes, I went up with him twice—to the Pump and Slipper and the Junior prom.”
“You’ve seen him, of course,” said Dean carelessly. “He’s here tonight. I saw him just a minute ago.”
Edith started. Yet she had felt quite sure he would be here.
“Why, no, I haven’t——”
A fat man with red hair cut in.
“Hello, Edith,” he began.
“Why—hello there——”
She slipped, stumbled lightly.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she murmured mechanically.
She had seen Gordon—Gordon very white and listless, leaning against the side of a doorway, smoking and looking into the ballroom. Edith could see that his face was thin and wan—that the hand he raised to his lips with a cigarette was trembling. They were dancing quite close to him now.
“—They invite so darn many extra fellas that you—” the short man was saying.
“Hello, Gordon,” called Edith over her partner’s shoulder. Her heart was pounding wildly.
His large dark eyes were fixed on her. He took a step in her direction. Her partner turned her away—she heard his voice bleating——
“—but half the stags get lit and leave before long, so——”
Then a low tone at her side.
“May I, please?”
She was dancing suddenly with Gordon; one of his arms was around her; she felt it tighten spasmodically; felt his hand on her back withthe fingers spread. Her hand holding the little lace handkerchief was crushed in his.
“Why Gordon,” she began breathlessly.
“Hello, Edith.”
She slipped again—was tossed forward by her recovery until her face touched the black cloth of his dinner coat. She loved him—she knew she loved him—then for a minute there was silence while a strange feeling of uneasiness crept over her. Something was wrong.
Of a sudden her heart wrenched, and turned over as she realized what it was. He was pitiful and wretched, a little drunk, and miserably tired.
“Oh—” she cried involuntarily.
His eyes looked down at her. She saw suddenly that they were blood-streaked and rolling uncontrollably.
“Gordon,” she murmured, “we’ll sit down; I want to sit down.”
They were nearly in mid-floor, but she had seen two men start toward her from opposite sides of the room, so she halted, seized Gordon’s limp hand and led him bumping through the crowd, her mouth tight shut, her face a little pale under her rouge, her eyes trembling with tears.
She found a place high up on the soft-carpeted stairs, and he sat down heavily beside her.
“Well,” he began, staring at her unsteadily, “I certainly am glad to see you, Edith.”
She looked at him without answering. The effect of this on her was immeasurable. For years she had seen men in various stages of intoxication, from uncles all the way down to chauffeurs, and her feelings had varied from amusement to disgust, but here for the first time she was seized with a new feeling—an unutterable horror.
“Gordon,” she said accusingly and almost crying, “you look like the devil.”
He nodded. “I’ve had trouble, Edith.”
“Trouble?”
“All sorts of trouble. Don’t you say anything to the family, but I’m all gone to pieces. I’m a mess, Edith.”
His lower lip was sagging. He seemed scarcely to see her.
“Can’t you—can’t you,” she hesitated, “can’t you tell me about it, Gordon? You know I’m always interested in you.”
She bit her lip—she had intended to say something stronger, but found at the end that she couldn’t bring it out.
Gordon shook his head dully. “I can’t tell you.
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