The Rich Boy. A short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald

THE RICH BOY

BEGIN WITH an individual, and before you know it you find that

you have created a type ; begin with a type, and you find that you

have created nothing. That is because we are all queer fish, queerer

behind our faces and voices than we want any one to know or than

we know ourselves. When I hear a man proclaiming himself an

"average, honest, open fellow," I feel pretty sure that he has some

definite and perhaps terrible abnormality which he has agreed to con-

ceal and his protestation of being average and honest and open is

his way of reminding himself of his misprision.

There are no types, no plurals. There is a rich boy, and this is his

and not his brothers' story. All my life I have lived among his

brothers but this one has been my friend. Besides, if I wrote about

his brothers I should have to begin by attacking all the lies that the

poor have told about the rich and the rich have told about them-

selves such a wild structure they have erected that when we pick

up a book about the rich, some instinct prepares us for unreality.

Even the intelligent and impassioned reporters of life have made the

country of the rich as unreal as fairy-land.

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you

and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them,

makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trust-

ful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to

understand. They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better

than we are because we had to discover the compensations and

refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our

world or sink below us, they still think that they are better than we

are. They are different. The only way I can describe young Anson

Hunter is to approach him as if he were a foreigner and cling stub-

bornly to my point of view. If I accept his for a moment I am lost

I have nothing to show but a preposterous movie.

II

Anson was the eldest of six children who would some day divide

a fortune of fifteen million dollars, and he reached the age of reason

is it seven? at the beginning of the century when daring young

women were already gliding along Fifth Avenue in electric "mobiles."

In those days he and his brother had an English governess who spoke

the language very clearly and crisply and well, so that the two boys

grew to speak as she did their words and sentences were all crisp

and clear and not run together as ours are. They didn't talk exactl}

like English children but acquired an accent that is peculiar tc

fashionable people in the city of New York.

In the summer the six children were moved from the house on

7ist Street to a big estate in northern Connecticut. It was not 2

fashionable locality Anson's father wanted to delay as long as pos-

sible his children's knowledge of that side of life. He was a man

somewhat superior to his class, which composed New York society,

and to his period, which was the snobbish and formalized vulgarity

of the Gilded Age, and he wanted his sons to learn habits of con-

centration and have sound constitutions and grow up into right-liv-

ing and successful men. He and his wife kept an eye on them as well

as they were able until the two older boys went away to school, but

in huge establishments this is difficult it was much simpler in the

series of small and medium-sized houses in which my own youth was

spent I was never far out of the reach of my mother's voice, of the

sense of her presence, her approval or disapproval.

Anson's first sense of his superiority came to him when he realized

the half-grudging American deference that was paid to him in the

Connecticut village. The parents of the boys he played with always

inquired after his father and mother, and were vaguely excited when

their own children were asked to the Hunters' house. He accepted

this as the natural state of things, and a sort of impatience with all

groups of which he was not the centre in money, in position, in

authority remained with him for the rest of his life. He disdained

to struggle with other boys for precedence he expected it to be

given him freely, and when it wasn't he withdrew into his family.

His family was sufficient, for in the East money is still a somewhat

feudal thing, a clan-forming thing. In the snobbish West, money sepa

rates families to form "sets."

At eighteen, when he went to New Haven, Anson was tall and

thick-set, with a clear complexion and a healthy color from the

ordered life he had led in school. His hair was yellow and grew in a

funny way on his head, his nose was beaked these two things kept

him from being handsome but he had a confident charm and a cer-

tain brusque style, and the upper-class men who passed him on the

street knew without being told that he was a rich boy and had gone

to one of the best schools. Nevertheless, his very superiority kept

him from being a success in college the independence was mistaken

for egotism, and the refusal to accept Yale standards with the proper

ated, he began to shift the centre of his life to New York.

He was at home in New York there was his own house with "the

kind of servants you can't get any more" and his own family, of

which, because of his good humor and a certain ability to make

things go, he was rapidly becoming the centre, and the debutante

parties, and the correct manly world of the men's clubs, and the occa-

sional wild spree with the gallant girls whom New Haven only knew

from the fifth row. His aspirations were conventional enough they

included even the irreproachable shadow he would some day marry,

but they differed from the aspirations of the majority of young men

in that there was no mist over them, none of that quality which is

variously known as "idealism" or "illusion." Anson accepted with-

out reservation the world of high finance and high extravagance, of

divorce and dissipation, of snobbery and of privilege. Most of our

lives end as a compromise it was as a compromise that his life

began.

He and I first met in the late summer of 1917 when he was just out

of Yale, and, like the rest of us, was swept up into the systematized

hysteria of the war. In the blue-green uniform of the naval aviation

he came down to Pensacola, where the hotel orchestras played "I'm

sorry, dear," and we young officers danced with the girls. Every one

liked him, and though he ran with the drinkers and wasn't an espe-

cially good pilot, even the instructors treated him with a certain

respect. He was always having long talks with them in his confident,

logical voice talks which ended by his getting himself, or, more

frequently, another officer, out of some impending trouble. He was

convivial, bawdy, robustly avid for pleasure, and we were all sur-

prised when he fell in love with a conservative and rather proper

girl.

Her name was Paula Legendre, a dark, serious beauty from some-

where in California. Her family kept a winter residence just outside

of town, and in spite of her primness she was enormously popular ;

there is a large class of men whose egotism can't endure humor in a

woman. But Anson wasn't that sort, and I couldn't understand the

attraction of her "sincerity" that was the thing to say about her

for his keen and somewhat sardonic mind.

Nevertheless, they fell in love and on her terms. He no longer

joined the twilight gathering at the De Soto bar, and whenever they

were seen together they were engaged in a long, serious dialogue,

which must have gone on several weeks. Long afterward he told me

that it was not about anything in particular but was composed on

both sides of immature and even meaningless statements the emo-

tional content that gradually came to fill it grew up not out of the

words but out of its enormous seriousness. It was a sort of hypnosis.

Often it was interrupted, giving way to that emasculated humor we

call fun ; when they were alone it was resumed again, solemn, low-

keyed, and pitched so as to give each other a sense of unity in feeling

and thought. They came to resent any interruptions of it, to be un-

responsive to facetiousness about life, even to the mild cynicism of

their contemporaries. They were only happy when the dialogue was

going on, and its seriousness bathed them like the amber glow of an

open fire. Toward the end there came an interruption they did not

resent it began to be interrupted by passion.

Oddly enough, Anson was as engrossed in the dialogue as she was

and as profoundly affected by it, yet at the same time aware that on

his side much was insincere, and on hers much was merely simple.

At first, too, he despised her emotional simplicity as well, but with

his love her nature deepened and blossomed, and he could despise it

no longer. He felt that if he could enter into Paula's warm safe life

he would be happy. The long preparation of the dialogue removed

any constraint he taught her some of what he had learned from

more adventurous women, and she responded with a rapt holy inten-

sity. One evening after a dance they agreed to marry, and he wrote

a long letter about her to his mother. The next day Paula told him

that she was rich, that she had a personal fortune of nearly a million

dollars.

Ill

It was exactly as if they could say "Neither of us has anything : we

shall be poor together" just as delightful that they should be rich

instead. It gave them the same communion of adventure. Yet when

Anson got leave in April, and Paula and her mother accompanied

him North, she was impressed with the standing of his family in

New York and with the scale on which they lived. Alone with Anson

for the first time in the rooms where he had played as a boy, she was

filled with a comfortable emotion, as though she were pre-eminently

safe and taken care of. The pictures of Anson in a skull cap at his

first school, of Anson on horseback with the sweetheart of a mysteri-

ous forgotten summer, of Anson in a gay group of ushers and brides-

maid at a wedding, made her jealous of his life apart from her in the

pst ? and so completely did his authoritative person seem to sum up

and typify these possessions of his that she was inspired with the

idea of being married immediately and returning to Pensacola as

his wife. But an immediate marriage wasn't discussed even the engage-

ment was to be secret until after the war. When she realized that

only two days of his leave remained, her dissatisfaction crystallized

in the intention of making him as unwilling to wait as she was. They

were driving to the country for dinner and she determined to force

the issue that night.

Now a cousin of Paula's was staying with them at the Ritz, a

severe, bitter girl who loved Paula but was somewhat jealous of her

impressive engagement, and as Paula was late in dressing, the cousin,

who wasn't going to the party, received Anson in the parlor of the

suite.

Anson had met friends at five o'clock and drunk freely and in-

discreetly with them for an hour. He left the Yale Club at a proper

time, and his mother's chauffeur drove him to the Ritz, but his usual

capacity was not in evidence, and the impact of the steam-heated

sitting-room made him suddenly dizzy. He knew it, and he was both

amused and sorry.

Paula's cousin was twenty-five, but she was exceptionally nai've,

and at first failed to realize what was up. She had never met Anson

before, and she was surprised when he mumbled strange information

and nearly fell off his chair, but until Paula appeared it didn't occur

to her that what she had taken for the odor of a dry-cleaned uni-*

form was really whiskey. But Paula understood as soon as she ap-

peared ; her only thought was to get Anson away before her mother

saw him, and at the look in her eyes the cousin understood too.

When Paula and Anson descended to the limousine they found two

men inside, both asleep ; they were the men with whom he had been

drinking at the Yale Club, and they were also going to the party. He

had entirely forgotten their presence in the car. On the way to Hemp-

stead they awoke and sang. Some of the songs were rough, and

though Paula tried to reconcile herself to the fact that Anson had

few verbal inhibitions, her lips tightened with shame and distaste.

Back at the hotel the cousin, confused and agitated, considered

the incident, and then walked into Mrs. Legendre's bedroom, saying :

"Isn't he funny?"

"Who is funny?"

"Why Mr. Hunter. He seemed so funny."

Mrs. Legendre looked at her sharply.

"How is he funny?"

"Why, he said he was French. I didn't know he was French."

"That's absurd. You must have misunderstood." She smiled: "It

was a joke."

The cousin shook her head stubbornly.

"No. He said he was brought up in France. He said he couldn't

speak any English, and that's why he couldn't talk to me. And he

couldn't "

Mrs. Legendre looked away with impatience just as the cousin

added thoughtfully, "Perhaps it was because he was so drunk/' and

walked out of the room.

This curious report was true. Anson, finding his voice thick and

uncontrollable, had taken the unusual refuge of announcing that he

spoke no English. Years afterwards he used to tell that part of the

story, and he invariably communicated the uproarious laughter which

the memory aroused in him.

Five times in the next hour Mrs. Legendre tried to get Hempstead

on the phone. When she succeeded, there was a ten-minute delay

before she heard Paula's voice on the wire.

"Cousin Jo told me Anson was intoxicated."

"Oh, no. . . ."

"Oh, yes. Cousin Jo says he was intoxicated. He told her he was

French, and fell off his chair and behaved as if he was very intoxi-

cated. I don't want you to come home with him."

"Mother, he's all right ! Please don't worry about "

"But I do worry. I think it's dreadful. I want you to promise me

not to come home with him."

"I'll take care of it, mother. . . ."

"I don't want you to come home with him."

"All right, mother. Good-by."

"Be sure now, Paula. Ask some one to bring you."

Deliberately Paula took the receiver from her ear and hung it up.

Her face was flushed with helpless annoyance. Anson was stretched

asleep out in a bedroom up-stairs, while the dinner-party below was

proceeding lamely toward conclusion.

The hour's drive had sobered him somewhat his arrival was

merely hilarious and Paula hoped that the evening was not spoiled,

after all, but two imprudent cocktails before dinner completed the

disaster. He talked boisterously and somewhat offensively to the

party at large for fifteen minutes, and then slid silently under the

table ; like a man in an old print but, unlike an old print, it was

rather horrible without being at all quaint. None of the young girls

present remarked upon the incident it seemed to merit only silence.

His uncle and two other men carried him up-stairs, and it was just

after this that Paula was called to the phone.

An hour later Anson awoke in a fog of nervous agony, through

which he perceived after a moment the figure of his uncle Robert

standing by the door.

". . . I said are you better?"

"What?"

"Do you feel better, old man?"

"Terrible," said Anson.

"I'm going to try you on another bromo-seltzer. If you can hold

it down, it'll do you good to sleep."

With an effort Anson slid his legs from the bed and stood up.

"I'm all right," he said dully.

"Take it easy."

"I thin' if you gave me a glassbrandy I could go down-stairs."

"Oh, no "

"Yes, that's the only thin'. I'm all right now. ... I suppose I'm

in Dutch dow' there."

"They know you're a little under the weather," said his uncle

deprecatingly. "But don't worry about it. Schuyler didn't even get

here. He passed away in the locker-room over at the Links."

Indifferent to any opinion, except Paula's, Anson was nevertheless

determined to save the d6bris of the evening, but when after a cold

bath he made his appearance most of the party had already left.

Paula got up immediately to go home.

In the limousine the old serious dialogue began. She had known

that he drank, she admitted, but she had never expected anything

like this it seemed to her that perhaps they were not suited to each

other, after all. Their ideas about life were too different, and so forth.

When she finished speaking, Anson spoke in turn, very soberly. Then

Paula said she'd have to think it over ; she wouldn't decide to-night ;

she was not angry but she was terribly sorry. Nor would she let him

come into the hotel with her, but just before she got out of the car

she leaned and kissed him unhappily on the cheek.

The next afternoon Anson had a long talk with Mrs. Legendre

while Paula sat listening in silence. It was agreed that Paula was

to brood over the incident for a proper period and then, if mother

and daughter thought it best, they would follow Anson to Pensacola.

On his part he apologized with sincerity and dignity that was all ;

with every card in her hand Mrs. Legendre was unable to establish

any advantage over him. He made no promises, showed no humility,

only delivered a few serious comments on life which brought him off

with rather a moral superiority at the end. When they came South

three weeks later, neither Anson in his satisfaction nor Paula in her

relief at the reunion realized that the psychological moment had

passed forever.

IV

He dominated and attracted her, and at the same time filled her

with anxiety. Confused by his mixture of solidity and self-indulgence,

of sentiment and cynicism incongruities which her gentle mind was

unable to resolve Paula grew to think of him as two alternating

personalities. When she saw him alone, or at a formal party, or with

his casual inferiors, she felt a tremendous pride in his strong, attrac-

tive presence, the paternal, understanding stature of his mind. In

other company she became uneasy when what had been a fine im-

perviousness to mere gentility showed its other face. The other face

was gross, humorous, reckless of everything but pleasure. It startled

her mind temporarily away from him, even led her into a short covert

experiment with an old beau, but it was no use after four months of

Anson's enveloping vitality there was an anaemic pallor in all other

men.

In July he was ordered abroad, and their tenderness and desire

reached a crescendo. Paula considered a last-minute marriage de-

cided against it only because there were always cocktails on his

breath now, but the parting itself made her physically ill with grief.

After his departure she wrote him long letters of regret for the days

of love they had missed by waiting. In August Anson's plane slipped

down into the North Sea. He was pulled onto a destroyer after a

night in the water and sent to hospital with pneumonia ; the armistice

was signed before he was finally sent home.

Then, with every opportunity given back to them, with no material

obstacle to overcome, the secret weavings of their temperaments

came between them, drying up their kisses and their tears, making

their voices less loud to one another, muffling the intimate chatter of

their hearts until the old communication was only possible by letters,

from far away. One afternoon a society reporter waited for two

hours in the Hunters' house for a confirmation of their engagement.

Anson denied it ; nevertheless an early issue carried the report as a

leading paragraph they were "constantly seen together at South-

hampton, Hot Springs, and Tuxedo Park." But the serious dialogue

had turned a corner into a long-sustained quarrel, and the affair was

almost played out. Anson got drunk flagrantly and missed an engage-

ment with her, whereupon Paula made certain behavioristic demands.

His despair was helpless before his pride and his knowledge of him-

self : the engagement was definitely broken.

"Dearest," said their letters now, "Dearest, Dearest, when I wake

up in the middle of the night and realize that after all it was not to

be, I feel that I want to die. I can't go on living any more. Perhaps

when we meet this summer we may talk things over and decide dif-

ferently we were so excited and sad that day, and I don't feel that

I can live all my life without you. You speak of other people. Don't

you know there are no other people for me, but only you. . . ."

But as Paula drifted here and there around the East she would

sometimes mention her gaieties to make him wonder. Anson was too

acute to wonder. When he saw a man's name in her letters he felt

more sure of her and a little disdainful he was always superior to

such things. But he still hoped that they would some day marry.

Meanwhile he plunged vigorously into all the movement and glitter

of post-bellum New York, entering a brokerage house, joining half

a dozen clubs, dancing late, and moving in three worlds his own

world, the world of young Yale graduates, and that section of the

half-world which rests one end on Broadway. But there was always

a thorough and infractible eight hours devoted to his work in Wall

Street, where the combination of his influential family connection,

his sharp intelligence, and his abundance of sheer physical energy

brought him almost immediately forward. He had one of those in-

valuable minds with partitions in it ; sometimes he appeared at his

office refreshed by less than an hour's sleep, but such occurrences

were rare. So early as 1920 his income in salary and commissions ex-

ceeded twelve thousand dollars.

As the Yale tradition slipped into the past he became more and

more of a popular figure among his classmates in New York, more

popular than he had ever been in college. He lived in a great house,

and had the means of introducing young men into other great houses.

Moreover, his life already seemed secure, while theirs, for the most

part, had arrived again at precarious beginnings. They commenced

to turn to him for amusement and escape, and Anson responded

readily, taking pleasure in helping people and arranging their affairs.

There were no men in Paula 's letters now, but a note of tenderness

ran through them that had not been there before. From several

sources he heard that she had "a heavy beau," Lowell Thayer, a

Bostonian of wealth and position, and though he was sure she still

loved him, it made him uneasy to think that he might lose her, after

all. Save for one unsatisfactory day she had not been in New York

for almost five months, and as the rumors multiplied he became in-

creasingly anxious to see her. In February he took his vacation and

went down to Florida.

Palm Beach sprawled plump and opulent between the sparkling

sapphire of Lake Worth, flawed here and there by house-boats at

anchor, and the great turquoise bar of the Atlantic Ocean. The huge

bulks of the Breakers and the Royal Poinciana rose as twin paunches

from the bright level of the sand, and around them clustered the

Dancing Glade, Bradley's House of Chance, and a dozen modistes

and milliners with goods at triple prices from New York. Upon the

trellised veranda of the Breakers two hundred women stepped right,

stepped left, wheeled, and slid in that then celebrated calisthenic

known as the double-shuffle, while in half-time to the music two

thousand bracelets clicked up and down on two hundred arms.

At the Everglades Club after dark Paula and Lowell Thayer and

Anson and a casual fourth played bridge with hot cards. It seemed to

Anson that her kind, serious face was wan and tired she had been

around now for four, five, years. He had known her for three.

"Two spades."

"Cigarette? . . . Oh, I beg your pardon. By me."

"By."

"I'll double three spades."

There were a dozen tables of bridge in the room, which was filling

up with smoke. Anson's eyes met Paula's, held them persistently

even when Thayer's glance fell between them. . . .

"What was bid?" he asked abstractedly.

"Rose of Washington Square"

sang the young people in the corners :

"Im withering there

In basement air "

The smoke banked like fog, and the opening of a door filled the

room with blown swirls of ectoplasm. Little Bright Eyes streaked

past the tables seeking Mr. Conan Doyle among the Englishmen

who were posing as Englishmen about the lobby.

"You could cut it with a knife."

". . . cut it with a knife."

"... a knife."

At the end of the rubber Paula suddenly got up and spoke to Anson

in a tense, low voice. With scarcely a glance at Lowell Thayer, they

walked out the door and descended a long flight of stone steps in

a moment they were walking hand in hand along the moonlit beach.

"Darling, darling. . . ." They embraced recklessly, passionately,

in a shadow. . . . Then Paula drew back her face to let his lips say

what she wanted to hear she could feel the words forming as they

kissed again. . . . Again she broke away, listening, but as he pulled

her close once more she realized that he had said nothing only

"Darling! Darling!" in that deep, sad whisper that always made her

cry. Humbly, obediently, her emotions yielded to him and the tears

streamed down her face, but her heart kept on crying : "Ask me oh,

Anson, dearest, ask me ! "

"Paula. . . . Paula!"

The words wrung her heart like hands, and Anson, feeling her

tremble, knew that emotion was enough. He need say no more, com-

mit their destinies to no practical enigma. Why should he, when he

might hold her so, biding his own time, for another year forever?

He was considering them both, her more than himself. For a moment,

when she said suddenly that she must go back to her hotel, he hesi

tated, thinking, first, "This is the moment, after all," and then : "No,

let it wait she is mine. . . "

He had forgotten that Paula too was worn away inside with the

strain of three, years. Her mood passed forever in the night.

He went back to New York next morning filled with a certain

restless dissatisfaction. Late in April, without warning, he received

a telegram from Bar Harbor in which Paula told him that she was

engaged to Lowell Thayer, and that they would be married immedi-

ately in Boston. What he never really believed could happen had

happened at last.

Anson filled himself with whiskey that morning, and going to the

office, carried on his work without a break rather with a fear of

what would happen if he stopped. In the evening he went out as

usual, saying nothing of what had occurred ; he was cordial, humor-

ous, unabstracted. But one thing he could not help for three days,

in any place, in any company, he would suddenly bend his head into

his hands and cry like a child.

V

In 1922 when Anson went abroad with the junior partner to investi-

gate some London loans, the journey intimated that he was to be

taken into the firm. He was twenty-seven now, a little heavy without

being definitely stout, and with a manner older than his years. Old

people and young people liked him and trusted him, and mothers felt

safe when their daughters were in his charge, for he had a way, when

he came into a room, of putting himself on a footing with the oldest

and most conservative people there. "You and I," he seemed to say,

"we're solid. We understand."

He had an instinctive and rather charitable knowledge of the weak-

nesses of men and women, and, like a priest, it made him the more

concerned for the maintenance of outward forms. It was typical of

him that every Sunday morning he taught in a fashionable Episcopal

Sunday-school even though a cold shower and a quick change into

a cutaway coat were all that separated him from the wild night be-

fore.

After his father's death he was the practical head of his family,

and, in effect, guided the destinies of the younger children. Through

a complication his authority did not extend to his father's estate,

which was administrated by his Uncle Robert, who was the horsey

member of the family, a good-natured, hard-drinking member of that

set which centres about Wheatley Hills.

Uncle Robert and his wife, Edna, had been great friends of Anson's

youth, and the former was disappointed when his nephew's superior-

ity failed to take a horsey form. He backed him for a city club

which was the mostMifficult in America to enter one could only join

if one's family had "helped to build up New York" (or, in other

words, were rich before 1880) and when Anson, after his election,

neglected it for the Yale Club, Uncle Robert gave him a little talk

on the subject. But when on top of that Anson declined to enter

Robert Hunter's own conservative and somewhat neglected broker-

age house, his manner grew cooler. Like a primary teacher who has

taught all he knew, he slipped out of Anson's life.

There were so many friends in Anson's life scarcely one for

whom he had not done some unusual kindness and scarcely one whom

he did not occasionally embarrass by his bursts of rough conversation

or his habit of getting drunk whenever and however he liked. It

annoyed him when any one else blundered in that regard about his

own lapses he was always humorous. Odd things happened to him

and he told them with infectious laughter.

I was working in New York that spring, and I used to lunch with

him at the Yale Club, which my university was sharing until the

completion of our own. I had read of Paula's marriage, and one after-

noon, when I asked him about her, something moved him to tell me

the story. After that he frequently invited me to family dinners at

his house and behaved as though there was a special relation between

us, as though with his confidence a little of that consuming memory

had passed into me.

I found that despite the trusting mothers, his attitude toward girls

was not indiscriminately protective. It was up to the girl if she

showed an inclination toward looseness, she must take care of her-

self, even with him.

"Life," he would explain sometimes, "has made a cynic of me."

By life he meant Paula. Sometimes, especially when he was drink-

ing, it became a little twisted in his mind, and he thought that she

had callously thrown him over.

This "cynicism," or rather his realization that naturally fast girls

were not worth sparing, led to his affair with Dolly Karger, It wasn't

his only affair in those years, but it came nearest to touching him

deeply, and it had a profound effect upon his attitude toward life.

Dolly was the daughter of a notorious "publicist" who had married

into society. She herself grew up into the Junior League, came out

at the Plaza, and went to the Assembly ; and only a few old families

like the Hunters could question whether or not she "belonged," for

her picture was often in the papers, and she had more enviable atten-

tion than many girls who undoubtedly did. She was dark-haired, with

carmine lips and a high, lovely color, which she concealed under

pinkish-gray powder all through the first year out, because high color

was unfashionable Victorian-pale was the thing to be. She wore

black, severe suits and stood with her hands in her pockets leaning

a little forward, with a humorous restraint on her face. She danced

exquisitely better than anything she liked to dance better than

anything except making love. Since she was ten she had always been

, and, usually, with some boy who didn't respond to her. Those

there were many bored her after a brief encounter,

but for her failures she reserved the warmest spot in her heart.

When she met them she would always try once more sometimes she

succeeded, more often she failed.

It never occurred to this gypsy of the unattainable that there was

a certain resemblance in those who refused to love her they shared

a hard intuition that saw through to her weakness, not a weakness

of emotion but a weakness of rudder. Anson perceived this when he

first met her, less than a month after Paula's marriage. He was drink-

ing rather heavily, and he pretended for a week that he was falling

in love with her. Then he dropped her abruptly and forgot imme-

diately he took up the commanding position in her heart.

Like so many girls of that day Dolly was slackly and indiscreetly

wild. The unconventionality of a slightly older generation had been

simply one facet of a post-war movement to discredit obsolete man-

ners Dolly's was both older and shabbier, and she saw in Anson the

two extremes which the emotionally shiftless woman seeks, an

abandon to indulgence alternating with a protective strength. In

his character she felt both the sybarite and the solid rock, and these

two satisfied every need of her nature.

She felt that it was going to be difficult, but she mistook the reason

she thought that Anson and his family expected a more spectacu-

lar marriage, but she guessed immediately that her advantage lay in

his tendency to drink.

They met at the large debutante dances, but as her infatuation

increased they managed to be more and more together. Like most

mothers, Mrs. Karger believed that Anson was exceptionally reliable,

so she allowed Dolly to go with him to distant country clubs and

suburban houses without inquiring closely into their activities or

questioning her explanations when they came in late. At first these

explanations might have been accurate, but Dolly's worldly ideas

of capturing Anson were soon engulfed in the rising sweep of her

emotion. Kisses in the back of taxis and motor-cars were no longer

enough ; they did a curious thing :

They dropped out of their world for a while and made another

world just beneath it where Anson's tippling and Dolly's irregular

hours would be less noticed and commented on. It was composed,

this world, of varying elements several of Anson's Yale friends and

their wives, two or three young brokers and bond salesmen and a

handful of unattached men, fresh from college, with money and a

propensity to dissipation. What this world lacked in spaciousness

and scale it made up for by allowing them a liberty that it scarcely

permitted itself. Moreover, it centred around them and permitted

Dolly the pleasure of a faint condescension a pleasure which Anson,

whose whole life was a condescension from the certitudes of his

childhood, was unable to share.

He was not in love with her, and in the long feverish winter of

their affair he frequently told her so. In the spring he was weary

he wanted to renew his life at some other source moreover, he saw

that either he must break with her now or accept the responsibility

of a definite seduction. Her family's encouraging attitude precipitated

his decision one evening when Mr. Karger knocked discreetly at

the library door to announce that he had left a bottle of old brandy

in the dining-room, Anson felt that life was hemming him in. That

night he wrote her a short letter in which he told her that he was

going on his vacation, and that in view of all the circumstances they

had better meet no more.

It was June. His family had closed up the house and gone to the

country, so he was living temporarily at the Yale Club. I had heard

about his affair with Dolly as it developed accounts salted with

humor, for he despised unstable women, and granted them no place

in the social edifice in which he believed and when he told me that

night that he was definitely breaking with her I was glad. I had seen

Dolly here and there, and each time with a feeling of pity at the

hopelessness of her struggle, and of shame at knowing so much about

her that I had no right to know. She was what is known as "a pretty

little thing," but there was a certain recklessness which rather fas-

cinated me. Her dedication to the goddess of waste would have been

less obvious had she been less spirited she would most certainly

throw herself away, but I was glad when I heard that the sacrifice

would not be consummated in my sight.

Anson was going to leave the letter of farewell at her house next

morning. It was one of the few houses left open in the Fifth Avenue

district, and he knew that the Kargers, acting upon erroneous in-

formation from Dolly, had foregone a trip abroad to give their daugh-

ter her chance. As he stepped out the door of the Yale Club into

Madison Avenue the postman passed him, and he followed back

inside. The first letter that caught his eye was in Dolly's hand.

He knew what it would be a lonely and tragic monologue, full

of the reproaches he knew, the invoked memories, the "I wonder

if's" all the immemorial intimacies that he had communicated to

Paula Legendre in what seemed another age. Thumbing over some

bills, he brought it on top again and opened it. To his surprise it was

a short, somewhat formal note, which said that Dolly would be un-

able to go to the country with him for the week-end, because Perry

Hull from Chicago had unexpectedly come to town. It added that

Anson had brought this on himself : " if I felt that you loved me

as I love you I would go with you at any time, any place, but Perry

is so nice, and he so much wants me to marry him "

Anson smiled contemptuously he had had experience with such

decoy epistles. Moreover, he knew how Dolly had labored over this

plan, probably sent for the faithful Perry and calculated the time of

his arrival even labored over the note so that it would make him

jealous without driving him away. Like most compromises, it had

neither force nor vitality but only a timorous despair.

Suddenly he was angry. He sat down in the lobby and read it

again. Then he went to the phone, called Dolly and told her in his

clear, compelling voice that he had received her note and would call

for her at five o'clock as they had previously planned. Scarcely wait-

ing for the pretended uncertainty of her "Perhaps I can see you for

an hour," he hung up the receiver and went down to his office. On

the way he tore his own letter into bits and dropped it in the street.

He was not jealous she meant nothing to him but at her pa-

thetic ruse everything stubborn and self-indulgent in him came to

the surface. It was a presumption from a mental inferior and it could

not be overlooked. If she wanted to know to whom she belonged she

would see.

He was on the door-step at quarter past five. Dolly was dressed

for the street, and he listened in silence to the paragraph of "I can

only see you for an hour/' which she had begun on the phone.

"Put on your hat, Dolly," he said, "we'll take a walk."

They strolled up Madison Avenue and over to Fifth while Anson's

shirt dampened upon his portly body in the deep heat. He talked

little, scolding her, making no love to her, but before they had walked

six blocks she was his again, apologizing for the note, offering not to

see Perry at all as an atonement, offering anything. She thought that

he had come because he was beginning to love her.

"I'm hot," he said when they reached yist Street. "This is a winter

suit. If I stop by the house and change, would you mind waiting for

me down-stairs? I'll only be a minute."

She was happy ; the intimacy of his being hot, of any physical fact

about him, thrilled her. When they came to the iron-grated door and

Anson took out his key she experienced a sort of delight.

Down-stairs it was dark, and after he ascended in the lift Dolly

raised a curtain and looked out through opaque lace at the houses

over the way. She heard the lift machinery stop, and with the notion

of teasing him pressed the button that brought it down. Then on

what was more than an impulse she got into it and sent it up to what

she guessed was his floor.

"Anson," she called, laughing a little.

"Just a minute," he answered from his bedroom . . . then after a

brief delay : "Now you can come in."

He had changed and was buttoning his vest.

"This is my room," he said lightly. "How do you like it?"

She caught sight of Paula's picture on the wall and stared at it in

fascination, just as Paula had stared at the pictures of Anson's child-

ish sweethearts five years before. She knew something about Paula

sometimes she tortured herself with fragments of the story.

Suddenly she came close to Anson, raising her arms. They em-

braced. Outside the area window a soft artificial twilight already hov-

ered, though the sun was still bright on a back roof across the way.

In half an hour the room would be quite dark. The uncalculated op-

portunity overwhelmed them, made them both breathless, and they

,clung more closely. It was imminent, inevitable. Still holding one

another, they raised their heads their eyes fell together upon

Paula's picture, staring down at them from the wall.

Suddenly Anson dropped his arms, and sitting down at his desk

tried the drawer with a bunch of keys.

"Like a drink?" he asked in a gruff voice.

"No, Anson."

He poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey, swallowed it, and

then opened the door into the hall.

"Come on," he said.

Dolly hesitated.

"Anson I'm going to the country with you tonight, after all. You

understand that, don't you?"

"Of course," he answered brusquely.

In Dolly's car they rode on to Long Island, closer in their emo-

tions than they had ever been before. They knew what would hap-

pen not with Paula's face to remind them that something was lack-

ing, but when they were alone in the still, hot Long Island night

they did not care.

The estate in Port Washington where they were to spend the week-

end belonged to a cousin of Anson's who had married a Montana

copper operator. An interminable drive began at the lodge and

twisted under imported poplar saplings toward a huge, pink Spanish

house. Anson had often visited there before.

After dinner they danced at the Linx Club. About midnight Anson

assured himself that his cousins would not leave before two then

he explained that Dolly was tired ; he would take her home and re-

turn to the dance later. Trembling a little with excitement, they got

into a borrowed car together and drove to Port Washington. As they

reached the lodge he stopped and spoke to the night-watchman.

"When are you making a round, Carl ?"

"Right away."

"Then you'll be here till everybody's in?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Listen : if any automobile, no matter whose it is, turns

in at this gate, I want you to phone the house immediately." He put

a five-dollar bill into Carl's hand. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mr. Anson." Being of the Old World, he neither winked nor

smiled. Yet Dolly sat with her face turned slightly away.

Anson had a key. Once inside he poured a drink for both of them

Dolly left hers untouched then he ascertained definitely the loca-

tion of the phone, and found that it was within easy hearing distance

of their rooms, both of which were on the first floor.

Five minutes later he knocked at the door of Dolly's room.

"Anson?" He went in, closing the door behind him. She was in

bed, leaning up anxiously with elbows on the pillow ; sitting beside

her he took her in his arms.

"Anson, darling."

He didn't answer.

"Anson. . . . Anson! I love you. . . . Say you love me. Say it

now can't you say it now? Even if you don't mean it?"

He did not listen. Over her head he perceived that the picture of

Paula was hanging here upon this wall.

He got up and went close to it. The frame gleamed faintly with

thrice-reflected moonlight within was a blurred shadow of a face

that he saw he did not know. Almost sobbing, he turned around and

stared with abomination at the little figure on the bed.

"This is all foolishness," he said thickly. "I don't know what I was

thinking about. I don't love you and you'd better wait for somebody

that loves you. I don't love you a bit, can't you understand?"

His voice broke, and he went hurriedly out. Back in the salon he

was pouring himself a drink with uneasy fingers, when the front door

opened suddenly, and his cousin came in.

"Why, Anson, I hear Dolly's sick," she began solicitously. "I hear

she's sick. . . ."

"It was nothing," he interrupted, raising his voice so that it would

carry into Dolly's room. "She was a little tired. She went to bed."

For a long time afterward Anson believed that a protective God

sometimes interfered in human affairs. But Dolly Karger, lying

awake and staring at the ceiling, never again believed in anything

again.

VI

When Dolly married during the following autumn, Anson was in

London on business. Like Paula's marriage, it was sudden, but it

affected him in a different way. At first he felt that it was funny,

and had an inclination to laugh when he thought of it. Later it de-

pressed him it made him feel old.

There was something repetitive about it why, Paula and Dolly

had belonged to different generations. He had a foretaste of the sen-

sation of a man of forty who hears that the daughter of an old

flame has married. He wired congratulations and, as was not the

case with Paula, they were sincere he had never really hoped that

Paula would be happy.

When he returned to New York, he was made a partner in the

firm, and, as his responsibilities increased, he had less time on his

hands. The refusal of a life-insurance company to issue him a policy

made such an impression on him that he stopped drinking for a year,

and claimed that he felt better physically, though I think he missed

the convivial recounting of those Celliniesque adventures which, in

his early twenties, had played such a part in his life. But he never

abandoned the Yale Club. He was a figure there, a personality, and

the tendency of his class, who were now seven years out of college,,

to drift away to more sober haunts was checked by his presence.

His day was never too full nor his mind too weary to give any sort

of aid to any one who asked it. What had been done at first through

pride and superiority had become a habit and a passion. And there

was always something a younger brother in trouble at New Haven,

a quarrel to be patched up between a friend and his wife, a position

to be found for this man, an investment for that. But his specialty

was the solving of problems for young married people. Young mar-

ried people fascinated him and their apartments were almost sacred

to him he knew the story of their love-affair, advised them where

to live and how, and remembered their babies' names. Toward young

wives his attitude was circumspect : he never abused the trust which

their husbands strangely enough in view of his unconcealed irregu-

larities invariably reposed in him.

He came to take a vicarious pleasure in happy marriages, and to

be inspired to an almost equally pleasant melancholy by those that

went astray. Not a season passed that he did not witness the collapse

of an affair that perhaps he himself had fathered. When Paula was

divorced and almost immediately remarried to another Bostonian,

he talked about her to me all one afternoon. He would never love any

one as he had loved Paula, but he insisted that he no longer cared.

"I'll never marry," he came to say; "I've seen too much of it,

and I know a happy marriage is a very rare thing. Besides, I'm too

old."

But he did believe in marriage. Like all men who spring from a

happy and successful marriage, he believed in it passionately noth-

ing he had seen would change his belief, his cynicism dissolved upon

it like air. But he did really believe he was too old. At twenty-eight

he began to accept with equanimity the prospect of marrying with-

out romantic love ; he resolutely chose a New York girl of his own

class, pretty, intelligent, congenial, above reproach and set about

falling in love with her. The things he had said to Paula with sin-

cerity, to other girls with grace, he could no longer say at all without

smiling, or with the force necessary to convince.

"When I'm forty," he told his friends, "I'll be ripe. I'll fall for

some chorus girl like the rest."

Nevertheless, he persisted in his attempt. His mother wanted to see

him married, and he could now well afford it he had a seat on the

Stock Exchange, and his earned income came to twenty-five thousand

a year. The idea was agreeable : when his friends he spent most of

his time with the set he and Dolly had evolved closed themselves in

behind domestic doors at night, he no longer rejoiced in his freedom.

He even wondered if he should have married Dolly. Not even Paula

had loved him more, and he was learning the rarity, in a single life,

of encountering true emotion.

Just as this mood began to creep over him a disquieting story

reached his ear. His Aunt Edna, a woman just this side of forty, was

carrying on an open intrigue with a dissolute, hard-drinking young

man named Gary Sloane. Every one knew of it except Anson's Uncle

Robert, who for fifteen years had talked long in clubs and taken his

wife for granted.

Anson heard the story again and again with increasing annoyance.

Something of his old feeling for his uncle came back to him, a feel-

ing that was more than personal, a reversion toward that family soli-

darity on which he had based his pride. His intuition singled out the

essential point of the affair, which was that his uncle shouldn't be

hurt. It was his first experiment in unsolicited meddling, but with

his knowledge of Edna's character he felt that he could handle the

matter better than a district judge or his uncle.

His uncle was in Hot Springs. Anson traced down the sources of

the scandal so that there should be no possibility of mistake and

then he called Edna and asked her to lunch with him at the Plaza

next day. Something in his tone must have frightened her, for she

was reluctant, but he insisted, putting off the date until she had no

excuse for refusing.

She met him at the appointed time in the Plaza lobby, a lovely,

faded, gray-eyed blonde in a coat of Russian sable. Five great rings,

cold with diamonds and emeralds, sparkled on her slender hands. It

occurred to Anson that it was his father's intelligence and not his

uncle's that had earned the fur and the stones, the rich brilliance

that buoyed up her passing beauty.

Though Edna scented his hostility, she was unprepared for the

directness of his approach.

"Edna, I'm astonished at the way you've been acting," he said in

a strong, frank voice. "At first I couldn't believe it."

"Believe what?" she demanded sharply.

"You needn't pretend with me, Edna. I'm talking about Gary

Sloane. Aside from any other consideration, I didn't think you could

treat Uncle Robert "

"Now look here, Anson " she began angrily, but his peremptory

voice broke through hers :

" and your children in such a way. You've been married eighteen

years, and you're old enough to know better."

"You can't talk to me like that ! You "

"Yes, I can. Uncle Robert has always been my best friend." He

was tremendously moved. He felt a real distress about his uncle,

about his three young cousins.

Edna stood up, leaving her crab-flake cocktail untasted.

"This is the silliest thing "

"Very well, if you won't listen to me I'll go to Uncle Robert and

tell him the whole story he's bound to hear it sooner or later. And

afterward I'll go to old Moses Sloane."

Edna faltered back into her chair.

"Don't talk so loud," she begged him. Her eyes blurred with

tears. "You have no idea how your voice carries. You might have

chosen a less public place to make all these crazy accusations."

He didn't answer.

"Oh, you never liked me, I know," she went on. "You're just tak-

ing advantage of some silly gossip to try and break up the only in-

teresting friendship I've ever had. What did I ever do to make you

hate me so?"

Still Anson waited. There would be the appeal to his chivalry, then

to his pity, finally to his superior sophistication when he had

shouldered his way through all these there would be admissions, and

he could come to grips with her. By being silent, by being impervious,

by returning constantly to his main weapon, which was his own true

emotion, he bullied her into frantic despair as the luncheon hour

slipped away. At two o'clock she took out a mirror and a handker-

chief, shined away the marks of her tears and powdered the slight

hollows where they had lain. She had agreed to meet him at her own

house at five.

When he arrived she was stretched on a chaise-longue which was

covered with cretonne for the summer, and the tears he had called up

at luncheon seemed still to be standing in her eyes. Then he was

aware of Gary Sloane's dark anxious presence upon the cold hearth.

"What's this idea of yours?" broke out Sloane immediately. "I

understand you invited Edna to lunch and then threatened her on

the basis of some cheap scandal."

Anson sat down.

"I have no reason to think it's only scandal."

"I hear you're going to take it to Robert Hunter, and to my

father."

Anson nodded.

"Either you break it off or I will," he said.

"What God damned business is it of yours, Hunter ?"

"Don't lose your temper, Gary," said Edna nervously. "It's only

a question of showing him how absurd "

"For one thing, it's my name that's being handed around," inter-

rupted Anson. "That's all that concerns you, Gary."

"Edna isn't a member of your family."

"She most certainly is ! " His anger mounted. "Why she owes this

house and the rings on her fingers to my father's brains. When Uncle

Robert married her she didn't have a penny."

They all looked at the rings as if they had a significant bearing on

the situation. Edna made a gesture to take them from her hand.

"I guess they're not the only rings in the world," said Sloane.

"Oh, this is absurd," cried Edna. "Anson, will you listen to me?

I've found out how the silly story started. It was a maid I discharged

who went right to the Chilicheffs all these Russians pump things

out of their servants and then put a false meaning on them." She

brought down her fist angrily on the table : "And after Robert lent

them the limousine for a whole month when we were South last

winter "

"Do you see ?" demanded Sloane eagerly. "This maid got hold of

the wrong end of the thing. She knew that Edna and I were friends,

and she carried it to the Chilicheffs. In Russia they assume that if a

man and a woman "

He enlarged the theme to a disquisition upon social relations in

the Caucasus.

"If that's the case it better be explained to Uncle Robert," said

Anson dryly, "so that when the rumors do reach him he'll know

they're not true."

Adopting the method he had followed with Edna at luncheon he

let them explain it all away. He knew that they were guilty and that

presently they would cross the line from explanation into justifica-

tion and convict themselves more definitely than he could ever do.

By seven they had taken the desperate step of telling him the truth

Robert Hunter's neglect, Edna's empty life, the casual dalliance

that had flamed up into passion but like so many true stories it

had the misfortune of being old, and its enfeebled body beat help-

lessly against the armor of Anson's will. The threat to go to Sloane's

father sealed their helplessness, for the latter, a retired cotton broker

out of Alabama, was a notorious fundamentalist who controlled his

son by a rigid allowance and the promise that at his next vagary the

allowance would stop forever.

They dined at a small French restaurant, and the discussion con-

tinued at one time Sloane resorted to physical threats, a little later

they were both imploring him to give them time. But Anson was

obdurate. He saw that Edna was breaking up, and that her spirit

must not be refreshed by any renewal of their passion.

At two o'clock in a small night-club on 53d Street, Edna's nerves

suddenly collapsed, and she cried to go home. Sloane had been drink-

ing heavily all evening, and he was faintly maudlin, leaning on the

table and weeping a little with his face in his hands. Quickly

Anson gave them his terms. Sloane was to leave town for six months,

and he must be gone within forty-eight hours. When he returned

there was to be no resumption of the affair, but at the end of a year

Edna might, if she wished, tell Robert Hunter that she wanted a

divorce and go about it in the usual way.

He paused, gaining confidence from their faces for his final word.

"Or there's another thing you can do," he said slowly, "if Edna

wants to leave her children, there's nothing I can do to prevent your

running off together."

"I want to go home!" cried Edna again. "Oh, haven't you done

enough to us for one day?"

Outside it was dark, save for a blurred glow from Sixth Avenue

down the street. In that light those two who had been lovers looked

for the last time into each other's tragic faces, realizing that between

them there was not enough youth and strength to avert their eternal

parting. Sloane walked suddenly off down the street and Anson

tapped a dozing taxi-driver on the arm.

It was almost four; there was a patient flow of cleaning water

along the ghostly pavement of Fifth Avenue, and the shadows of

two night women flitted over the dark facade of St. Thomas's church.

Then the desolate shrubbery of Central Park where Anson had

often played as a child, and the mounting numbers, significant as

names, of the marching streets. This was his city, he thought, where

his name had flourished through five generations. No change could

alter the permanence of its place here, for change itself was the

essential substratum by wliich he and those of his name identified

themselves with the spirit of New York^ Resourcefulness and a

powerful will for his threats in weaker hands would have been

less than nothing had beaten the gathering dust from his uncle's

name, from the name of his family, from even this shivering figure

that sat beside him in the car.

Gary Sloane's body was found next morning on the lower shelf of

a pillar of Queensboro Bridge. In the darkness and in his excitement

he had thought that it was the water flowing black beneath him, but

in less than a second it made no possible difference unless he had

planned to think one last thought of Edna, and call out her name

as he struggled feebly in the water.

VII

Anson never blamed himself for his part in this affair the situa-

tion which brought it about had not been of his making. But the

just suffer with the unjust, and he found that his oldest and some-

how his most precious friendship was over. He never knew what

distorted story Edna told, but he was welcome in his uncle's house

no longer.

Just before Christmas Mrs. Hunter retired to a select Episcopal

heaven, and Anson became the responsible head of his family. An

unmarried aunt who had lived with them for years ran the house,

and attempted with helpless inefficiency to chaperone the younger

girls. All the children were less self-reliant than Anson, more con-

ventional both in their virtues and in their shortcomings. Mrs.

Hunter's death had postponed the debut of one daughter and the

wedding of another. Also it had taken something deeply material

from all of them, for with her passing the quiet, expensive superi-

ority of the Hunters came to an end.

For one thing, the estate, considerably diminished by two inherit-

ance taxes and soon to be divided among six children, was not a

notable fortune any more. Anson saw a tendency in his youngest

sisters to speak rather respectfully of families that hadn't "existed"

twenty years ago. His own feeling of precedence was not echoed in

them sometimes they were conventionally snobbish, that was all.

For another thing, this was the last summer they would spend on

the Connecticut estate ; the clamor against it was too loud : "Who

wants to waste the best months of the year shut up in that dead old

town ?" Reluctantly he yielded the house would go into the market

in the fall, and next summer they would rent a smaller place in

Westchester County. It was a step down from the expensive sim-

plicity of his father's idea, and, while he sympathized with the

revolt, it also annoyed him; during his mother's lifetime he had

gone up there at least every other week-end even in the gayest

summers.

Yet he himself was part of this change, and his strong instinct

for life had turned him in his twenties from the hollow obsequies

of that abortive leisure class. He did not see this clearly he still

felt that there was a norm, a standard of society. But there was no

norm, it was doubtful if there ever had been a true norm in New

York. The few who still paid and fought to enter a particular set

succeeded only to find that as a society it scarcely functioned or,

what was more alarming, that the Bohemia from which they fled sat

above them at table.

At twenty-nine Anson's chief concern was his own growing loneli-

ness. He was sure now that he would never marry. The number of

weddings at which he had officiated as best man or usher was past

all counting there was a drawer at home that bulged with the

official neckties of this or that wedding-party, neckties standing

for romances that had not endured a year, for couples who had passed

completely from his life. Scarf-pins, gold pencils, cuff-buttons, pres-

ents from a generation of grooms had passed through his jewel-box

and been lost and with every ceremony he was less and less able

to imagine himself in the groom's place. Under his hearty good-will

toward all those marriages there was despair about his own.

And as he neared thirty he became not a little depressed at the

inroads that marriage, especially lately, had made upon his friend-

ships. Groups of people had a disconcerting tendency to dissolve

and disappear. The men from his own college and it was upon

them he had expended the most time and affection were the most

elusive of all. Most of them were drawn deep into domesticity, two

were dead, one lived abroad, one was in Hollywood writing con-

tinuities for pictures that Anson went faithfully to see.

Most of them, however, were permanent commuters with an

intricate family life centring around some suburban country

club, and it was from these that he felt his estrangement most

keenly.

In the early days of their married life they had all needed him ;

he gave them advice about their slim finances, he exorcised their

doubts about the advisability of bringing a baby into two rooms

and a bath, especially he stood for the great world outside. But now

their financial troubles were in the past and the fearfully expected

child had evolved into an absorbing family. They were always glad

to see old Anson, but they dressed up for him and tried to impress

him with their present importance, and kept their troubles to them-

selves. They needed him no longer.

A few weeks before his thirtieth birthday the last of his early

and intimate friends was married. Anson acted in his usual role of

best man, gave his usual silver tea-service, and went down to the

usual Homeric to say good-by. It was a hot Friday afternoon in

May, and as he walked from the pier he realized that Saturday

closing had begun and he was free until Monday morning.

"Go where?" he asked himself.

The Yale Club, of course; bridge until dinner, then four or five

raw cocktails in somebody's room and a pleasant confused evening.

He regretted that this afternoon's groom wouldn't be along they

had always been able to cram so much into such nights : they knew

how to attach women and how to get rid of them, how much con-

sideration any girl deserved from their intelligent hedonism. A party

was an adjusted thing you took certain girls to certain places and

spent just so much on their amusement; you drank a little, not

much, more than you ought to drink, and at a certain time in the

morning you stood up and said you were going home. You avoided

college boys, sponges, future engagements, fights, sentiment, and

indiscretions. That was the way it was done. All the rest was dissi-

pation.

In the morning you were never violently sorry you made no

resolutions, but if you had overdone it and your heart was slightly

out of order, you went on the wagon for a few days without saying

anything about it, and waited until an accumulation of nervous

boredom projected you into another party.

The lobby of the Yale Club was unpopulated. In the bar three

very young alumni looked up at him, momentarily and without

curiosity.

"Hello, there, Oscar," he said to the bartender. "Mr. Cahill been

around this afternoon?"

"Mr. Cahiirs gone to New Haven."

"Oh . . . that so?"

"Gone to the ball game. Lot of men gone up."

Anson looked once again into the lobby, considered for a moment,

and then walked out and over to Fifth Avenue. From the broad win-

dow of one of his clubs one that he had scarcely visited in five

years a gray man with watery eyes stared down at him. Anson

looked quickly away that figure sitting in vacant resignation, in

supercilious solitude, depressed him. He stopped and, retracing his

steps, started over 47th Street toward Teak Warden's apartment.

Teak and his wife had once been his most familiar friends it was

a household where he and Dolly Karger had been used to go in

the days of their affair. But Teak had taken to drink, and his wife

had remarked publicly that Anson was a bad influence on him. The

remark reached Anson in an exaggerated form when it was finally

cleared up, the delicate spell of intimacy was broken, never to be

renewed.

"Is Mr. Warden at home ?" he inquired.

"They Ve gone to the country."

The fact unexpectedly cut at him. They were gone to the country

and he hadn't known. Two years before he would have known the

date, the hour, come up at the last moment for a final drink,

and planned his first visit to them. Now they had gone without

a word.

Anson looked at his watch and considered a week-end with his

family, but the only train was a local that would jolt through the

aggressive heat for three hours. And to-morrow in the country, and

Sunday he was in no mood for porch-bridge with polite under-

graduates, and dancing after dinner at a rural roadhouse, a diminu-

tive of gaiety which his father had estimated too well.

"Oh, no," he said to himself. . . . "No."

He was a dignified, impressive young man, rather stout now, but

otherwise unmarked by dissipation. He could have been cast for a

pillar of something at times you were sure it was not society, at

others nothing else for the law, for the church. He stood for a few

minutes motionless on the sidewalk in front of a 47th Street apart-

ment-house; for almost the first time in his life he had nothing

whatever to do.

Then he began to walk briskly up Fifth Avenue, as if he had just

been reminded of an important engagement there. The necessity of

dissimulation is one of the few characteristics that we share with

dogs, and I think of Anson on that day as some well-bred specimen

who had been disappointed at a familiar back door. He was going

to see Nick, once a fashionable bartender in demand at all private

dances, and now employed in cooling non-alcoholic champagne

among the labyrinthine cellars of the Plaza Hotel.

"Nick," he said, "what's happened to everything?"

"Dead," Nick said.

"Make me a whiskey sour." Anson handed a pint bottle over the

counter. "Nick, the girls are different ; I had a little girl in Brook-

lyn and she got married last week without letting me know."

"That a fact ? Ha-ha-ha," responded Nick diplomatically. "Slipped

it over on you."

"Absolutely," said Anson. "And I was out with her the night

before."

"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick, "ha-ha-ha!"

"Do you remember the wedding, Nick, in Hot Springs where I

had the waiters and the musicians singing 'God save the King'?"

"Now where was that, Mr. Hunter?" Nick concentrated doubt-

fully. "Seems to me that was "

"Next time they were back for more, and I began to wonder how

much I'd paid them," continued Anson.

" seems to me that was at Mr. Trenholm's wedding."

"Don't know him," said Anson decisively. He was offended that

a strange name should intrude upon his reminiscences; Nick per-

ceived this.

"Na aw " he admitted, "I ought to know that. It was one of

your crowd Brakins . . . Baker "

"Bicker Baker," said Anson responsively. "They put me in a

hearse after it was over and covered me up with flowers and drove

me away."

"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick. "Ha-ha-ha."

Nick's simulation of the old family servant paled presently and

Anson went up-stairs to the lobby. He looked around his eyes met

the glance of an unfamiliar clerk at the desk, then fell upon a flower

from the morning's marriage hesitating in the mouth of a brass cus-

pidor. He went out and walked slowly toward the blood-red sun

over Columbus Circle. Suddenly he turned around and, retracing his

steps to the Plaza, immured himself in a telephone-booth.

Later he said that he tried to get me three times that afternoon,

that he tried every one who might be in New York men and girls

he had not seen for years, an artist's model of his college days whose

faded number was still in his address book Central told him that

even the exchange existed no longer. At length his quest roved into

the country, and he held brief disappointing conversations with

emphatic butlers and maids. So-and-so was out, riding, swimming,

playing golf, sailed to Europe last week. Who shall I say phoned?

It was intolerable that he should pass the evening alone the

private reckonings which one plans for a moment of leisure lose

every charm when the solitude is enforced. There were always women

of a sort, but the ones he knew had temporarily vanished, and to pass

a New York evening in the hired company of a stranger never

occurred to him he would have considered that that was something

shameful and secret, the diversion of a travelling salesman in a

strange town.

Anson paid the telephone bill the girl tried unsuccessfully to joke

with him about its size and for the second time that afternoon

started to leave the Plaza and go he knew not where. Near the revolv-

ing door the figure of a woman, obviously with child, stood side-

ways to the light a sheer beige cape fluttered at her shoulders when

the door turned and, each time, she looked impatiently toward it as

if she were weary of waiting. At the first sight of her a strong

nervous thrill of familiarity went over him, but not until he was

within five feet of her did he realize that it was Paula.

"Why, Anson Hunter!"

His heart turned over.

"Why, Paula "

"Why, this is wonderful. I can't believe it, Anson ! "

She took both his hands, and he saw in the freedom of the gesture

that the memory of him had lost poignancy to her. But not to him

he felt that old mood that she evoked in him stealing over his brain,

that gentleness with which he had always met her optimism as if

afraid to mar its surface.

"We're at Rye for the summer. Pete had to come East on business

you know of course I'm Mrs. Peter Hagerty now so we brought

the children and took a house. You've got to come out and see us."

"Can I?" he asked directly. "When?"

"When you like. Here's Pete." The revolving door functioned,

giving up a fine tall man of thirty with a tanned face and a trirn

mustache. His immaculate fitness made a sharp contrast with

Anson 's increasing bulk, which was obvious under the faintly tight

cut-away coat.

"You oughtn't to be standing," said Hagerty to his wife. "Let's

sit down here." He indicated lobby chairs, but Paula hesitated.

"I've got to go right home," she said. "Anson, why don't you

why don't you come out and have dinner with us to-night? We're

just getting settled, but if you can stand that "

Hagerty confirmed the invitation cordially.

"Come out for the night."

Their car waited in front of the hotel, and Paula with a tired

gesture sank back against silk cushions in the corner.

"There's so much I want to talk to you about," she said, "it

seems hopeless."

"I want to hear about you."

"Well" she smiled at Hagerty "that would take a long time

too. I have three children by my first marriage. The oldest is five,

then four, then three." She smiled again. "I didn't waste much time

having them, did I ?"

"Boys?"

"A boy and two girls. Then oh, a lot of things happened, and I

got a divorce in Paris a year ago and married Pete. That's all

except that I'm awfully happy."

In Rye they drove up to a large house near the Beach Club, from

which there issued presently three dark, slim children who broke

from an English governess and approached them with an esoteric

cry. Abstractedly and with difficulty Paula took each one into her

arms, a caress which they accepted stiffly, as they had evidently been

told not to bump into Mummy. Even against their fresh faces

Paula's skin showed scarcely any weariness for all her physical

languor she seemed younger than when he had last seen her at Palm

Beach seven years ago.

At dinner she was preoccupied, and afterward, during the homage

to the radio, she lay with closed eyes on the sofa, until Anson won-

dered if his presence at this time were not an intrusion. But at nine

o'clock, when Hagerty rose and said pleasantly that he was going

to leave them by themselves for a while, she began to talk slowly

about herself and the past.

"My first baby," she said "the one we call Darling, the biggest

little girl I wanted to die when I knew I was going to have her,

because Lowell was like a stranger to me. It didn't seem as though

she could be my own. I wrote you a letter and tore it up. Oh, you

were so bad to me, Anson."

It was the dialogue again, rising and falling. Anson felt a sudden

quickening of memory.

"Weren't you engaged once?" she asked "a girl named Dolly

something?"

"I wasn't ever engaged. I tried to be engaged, but I never loved

anybody but you, Paula."

"Oh," she said. Then after a moment : "This baby is the first one

I ever really wanted. You see, I'm in love now at last."

He didn't answer, shocked at the treachery of her remembrance.

She must have seen that the "at last" bruised him, for she continued :

"I was infatuated with you, Anson you could make me do any-

thing you liked. But we wouldn't have been happy. I'm not smart

enough for you. I don't like things to be complicated like you do."

She paused. "You'll never settle down," she said.

The phrase struck at him from behind it was an accusation that

of all accusations he had never merited.

"I could settle down if women were different," he said. "If I

didn't understand so much about them, if women didn't spoil you for

other women, if they had only a little pride. If I could go to sleep

for a while and wake up into a home that was really mine why,

that's what I'm made for, Paula, that's what women have seen in

me and liked in me. It's only that I can't get through the prelimi-

naries any more."

Hagerty came in a little before eleven; after a whiskey Paula

stood up and announced that she was going to bed. She went over

and stood by her husband.

"Where did you go, dearest?" she demanded.

"I had a drink with Ed Saunders."

"I was worried. I thought maybe you'd run away."

She rested her head against his coat.

"He's sweet, isn't he, Anson?" she demanded.

"Absolutely," said Anson, laughing.

She raised her face to her husband.

"Well, I'm ready," she said. She turned to Anson: "Do you want

to see our family gymnastic stunt?"

"Yes," he said in an interested voice.

"All right. Here we go!"

Hagerty picked her up easily in his arms.

"This is called the family acrobatic stunt," said Paula. "He can

ries me up-stiars. Isn't it sweet of him?"

"Yes," said Anson.

Hagerty bent his head slightly until his face touched Paula's.

"And I love him," she said. "I've just been telling you, haven't

I, Anson?"

"Yes," he said.

"He's the dearest thing that ever lived in this world ; aren't you,

darling? . . . Well, good night. Here we go. Isn't he strong?"

"Yes," Anson said.

"You'll find a pair of Pete's pajamas laid out for you. Sweet

dreams see you at breakfast."

"Yes," Anson said.

VIII

The older members of the firm insisted that Anson should go

abroad for the summer. He had scarcely had a vacation in seven

years, they said. He was stale and needed a change. Anson resisted.

"If I go," he declared, "I won't come back any more."

"That's absurd, old man. You'll be back in three months with all

this depression gone. Fit as ever."

"No." He shook his head stubbornly. "If I stop, I won't go back

to work. If 1 stop, that means I've given up I'm through."

"We'll take a chance on that. Stay six months if you like we're

not afraid you'll leave us. Why, you'd be miserable if you didn't

work."

They arranged his passage for him. They liked Anson every one

liked Anson and the change that had been coming over him cast

a sort of pall over the office. The enthusiasm that had invariably

signalled up business, the consideration toward his equals and his

inferiors, the lift of his vital presence within the past four months

his intense nervousness had melted down these qualities into the

fussy pessimism of a man of forty. On every transaction in which

he was involved he acted as a drag and a strain.

"If I go I'll never come back," he said.

Three days before he sailed Paula Legendre Hagerty died in

childbirth. I was with him a great deal then, for we were crossing

together, but for the first time in our friendship he told me not a

word of how he felt, nor did I see the slightest sign of emotion. His

chief preoccupation was with the fact that he was thirty years old

he would turn the conversation to the point where he could remind

you of it and then fall silent, as if he assumed that the statement

would start a chain of thought sufficient to itself. Like his partners,

I was amazed at the change in him, and I was glad when the Paris

moved off into the wet space between the worlds, leaving his princi-

pality behind.

"How about a drink?" he suggested.

We walked into the bar with that defiant feeling that characterizes

the day of departure and ordered four Martinis. After one cocktail

a change came over him he suddenly reached across and slapped

my knee with the first joviality I had seen him exhibit for months.

"Did you see that girl in the red tarn?" he demanded, "the one

with the high color who had the two police dogs down to bid

her good-by."

"She's pretty," I agreed.

"I looked her up in the purser's office and found out that she's

alone. I'm going down to see the steward in a few minutes. We'll

have dinner with her to-night."

After a while he left me, and within an hour he was walking up

and down the deck with her, talking to her in his strong, clear voice.

Her red tarn was a bright spot of color against the steel-green sea,

and from time to time she looked up with a flashing bob of her head,

and smiled with amusement and interest, and anticipation. At dinner

we had champagne, and were very joyous afterward Anson ran the

pool with infectious gusto, and several people who had seen me

with him asked me his name. He and the girl were talking and

laughing together on a lounge in the bar when I went to bed.

I saw less of him on the trip than I had hoped. He wanted to

arrange a foursome, but there was no one available, so I saw him only

at meals. Sometimes, though, he would have a cocktail in the bar,

and he told me about the girl in the red tarn, and his adventures

with her, making them all bizarre and amusing, as he had a way of

doing, and I was glad that he was himself again, or at least the self

that I knew, and with which I felt at home. I don't think he was

ever happy unless some one was in love with him, responding to

him like filings to a magnet, helping him to explain himself, promis-

ing him something. What it was I do not know. Perhaps they prom-

ised that there would always be women in the world who would

spend their brightest, freshest, rarest hours to nurse and protect

that superiority he cherished in his heart.