: (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 unforgetable 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 I’ll marry you.”
“We won’t have much at first.”
“Don’t!” she cried. “It hurts when you reproach yourself for what you can’t give me. I’ve got your precious self—and that’s enough for me.”
“Tell me …”
“You know, don’t you? Oh, you know.”
“Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”
“I love you, Amory, with all my heart.”
“Always, will you?”
“All my life—Oh, Amory——”
“What?”
“I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I want to have your babies.”
“But I haven’t any people.”
“Don’t laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me.”
“I’ll do what you want,” he said.
“No, I’ll do what you want. We’re you —not me. Oh, you’re so much a part, so much all of me …”
He closed his eyes.
“I’m so happy that I’m frightened. Wouldn’t it be awful if this was—was the high point? …”
She looked at him dreamily.
“Beauty and love pass, I know…. Oh, there’s sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses——”
“Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony….”
“And, Amory, we’re beautiful, I know. I’m sure God loves us——”
“He loves you. You’re his most precious possession.”
“I’m
