walks in briskly.)
Amory: My dance.
Rosalind: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine.
Gillespie: I’ve met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren’t you?
Amory: Yes.
Gillespie: (Desperately) I’ve been there. It’s in the—the Middle West, isn’t it?
Amory: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I’d rather be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning.
Gillespie: What!
Amory: Oh, no offense.
(Gillespie bows and leaves.)
Rosalind: He’s too much people.
Amory: I was in love with a people once.
Rosalind: So?
Amory: Oh, yes—her name was Isabelle—nothing at all to her except what I read into her.
Rosalind: What happened?
Amory: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I was—then she threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical, you know.
Rosalind: What do you mean impractical?
Amory: Oh—drive a car, but can’t change a tire.
Rosalind: What are you going to do?
Amory: Can’t say—run for President, write——
Rosalind: Greenwich Village?
Amory: Good heavens, no—I said write—not drink.
Rosalind: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely.
Amory: I feel as if I’d known you for ages.
Rosalind: Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story?
Amory: No—I was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you were one of my—my—(Changing his tone.) Suppose—we fell in love.
Rosalind: I’ve suggested pretending.
Amory: If we did it would be very big.
Rosalind: Why?
Amory: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.
Rosalind: (Turning her lips up) Pretend.
(Very deliberately they kiss.)
Amory: I can’t say sweet things. But you are beautiful.
Rosalind: Not that.
Amory: What then?
Rosalind: (Sadly) Oh, nothing—only I want sentiment, real sentiment—and I never find it.
Amory: I never find anything else in the world—and I loathe it.
Rosalind: It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic taste.
(Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the room. Rosalind rises.)
Rosalind: Listen! they’re playing “Kiss Me Again.”
(He looks at her.)
Amory: Well?
Rosalind: Well?
Amory: (Softly—the battle lost) I love you.
Rosalind: I love you—now.
(They kiss.)
Amory: Oh, God, what have I done?
Rosalind: Nothing. Oh, don’t talk. Kiss me again.
Amory: I don’t know why or how, but I love you—from the moment I saw you.
Rosalind: Me too—I—I—oh, to-night’s to-night.
(Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: “Oh, excuse me,” and goes.)
Rosalind: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don’t let me go—I don’t care who knows what I do.
Amory: Say it!
Rosalind: I love you—now. (They part.) Oh—I am very youthful, thank God—and rather beautiful, thank God—and happy, thank God, thank God—(She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy, adds) Poor Amory!
(He kisses her again.)
Kismet.
Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply and passionately in love. The critical qualities which had spoiled for each of them a dozen romances were dulled by the great wave of emotion that washed over them.
“It may be an insane love-affair,” she told her anxious mother, “but it’s not inane.”
The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency early in March, where he alternated between astonishing bursts of rather exceptional work and wild dreams of becoming suddenly rich and touring Italy with Rosalind.
They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly every evening—always in a sort of breathless hush, as if they feared that any minute the spell would break and drop them out of this paradise of rose and flame. But the spell became a trance, seemed to increase from day to day; they began to talk of marrying in July—in June. All life was transmitted into terms of their love, all experience, all desires, all ambitions, were nullified—their senses of humor crawled into corners to sleep; their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely regretted juvenalia.
For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement and was hurrying into line with his generation.
A Little Interlude.
Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as inevitably his—the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim streets … it seemed that he had closed the book of fading harmonies at last and stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Everywhere these countless lights, this promise of a night of streets and singing—he moved in a half-dream through the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind hurrying toward him with eager feet from every corner…. How the unforgetable [unforgettable] faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad
