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F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

Red Book (January and February 1926)

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 conceal--
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
themselves--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
trustful, 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 stubbornly to my point of view.  If I accept
his for a moment I am lost--I have nothing to show but a
preposterous movie.


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 exactly like English children but acquired
an accent that is peculiar to fashionable people in the city of New

In the summer the six children were moved from the house on 71st
Street to a big estate in northern Connecticut.  It was not a
fashionable locality--Anson's father wanted to delay as long as
possible 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 concentration and have sound constitutions and grow up into
right-living 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

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 center--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 separates 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 certain
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
awe seemed to belittle all those who had.  So, long before he
graduated, he began to shift the center 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 center, and the débutante parties, and
the correct manly world of the men's clubs, and the occasional 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 without
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

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 especially 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 surprised when he fell in love with a
conservative and rather proper girl.

Her name was Paula Legendre, a dark, serious beauty from somewhere
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 Sota 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
emotional 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 unresponsive 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

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 intensity.  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.


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
mysterious forgotten summer, of Anson in a gay group of ushers and
bridesmaid at a wedding, made her jealous of his life apart from
her in the past, 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 engagement 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
indiscreetly 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 naïve,
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 uniform was really whiskey.  But Paula understood as
soon as she appeared; 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
Hempstead 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

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 afterward 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
intoxicated.  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?"


"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 débris 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.


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, attractive presence, the paternal,
understanding stature of his mind.  In other company she became
uneasy when what had been a fine imperviousness 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 anæmic 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--
decided 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

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 Southampton, 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 engagement with her, whereupon Paula
made certain behavioristic demands.  His despair was helpless
before his pride and his knowledge of himself: 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
differently--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
invaluable 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 exceeded 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
increasingly 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 trellissed 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."


"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:

          "I'm 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, commit
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
hesitated, 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.  There was a pretty débutante he knew in
his car, and for two days they took their meals together.  At first
he told her a little about Paula and invented an esoteric
incompatibility that was keeping them apart.  The girl was of a
wild, impulsive nature, and she was flattered by Anson's
confidences.  Like Kipling's soldier, he might have possessed
himself of most of her before he reached New York, but luckily he
was sober and kept control.  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
immediately 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,
humorous, 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.


In 1922 when Anson went abroad with the junior partner to
investigate 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
weaknesses 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 before.  Once, by some mutual instinct, several children
got up from the front row and moved to the last.  He told this
story frequently, and it was usually greeted with hilarious

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 centers 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
superiority failed to take a horsey form.  He backed him for a city
club which was the most difficult 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
brokerage 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
afternoon, 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 herself, even with him.

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

By life he meant Paula.  Sometimes, especially when he was
drinking, 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
attention 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 in love, and, usually, with some boy who
didn't respond to her.  Those who did--and 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
drinking rather heavily, and he pretended for a week that he was
falling in love with her.  Then he dropped her abruptly and forgot--
immediately 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
manners--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
spectacular marriage, but she guessed immediately that her
advantage lay in his tendency to drink.

They met at the large débutante 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 centered 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 fascinated 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

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 information from Dolly, had foregone a trip abroad to
give their daughter 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 unable
to go to the country with him for the weekend, 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
waiting 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

He was not jealous--she meant nothing to him--but at her pathetic
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 71st Street.  "This is a
winter suit.  If I stop by the house and change, would you mind
waiting for me downstairs?  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
childish 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 embraced.
Outside the area window a soft artificial twilight already hovered,
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
opportunity overwhelmed them, made them both breathless, and they
clung more closely.  It was eminent, 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
emotions than they had ever been before.  They knew what would
happen--not with Paula's face to remind them that something was
lacking, 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
return 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-

"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
location 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

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
at all.


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
depressed 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
sensation 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 of 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 married 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 irregularities--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

But he did believe in marriage.  Like all men who spring from a
happy and successful marriage, he believed in it passionately--
nothing 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 without 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 sincerity, to other girls with grace, he could no longer
say at all without smiling, or with the force necessary to

"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

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 Cary 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
feeling that was more than personal, a reversion toward that family
solidarity 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

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 Cary 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 taking
advantage of some silly gossip to try and break up the only
interesting 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 handkerchief, 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 Cary Sloane's dark anxious presence upon the cold

"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

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, Cary," 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,"
interrupted Anson.  "That's all that concerns you, Cary."

"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
Tom 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
justification 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 helplessly 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
continued--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
drinking 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 façade 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 which 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.

Cary 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.


Anson never blamed himself for his part in this affair--the
situation which brought it about had not been of his making.  But
the just suffer with the unjust, and he found that his oldest and
somehow 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
conventional both in their virtues and in their shortcomings.  Mrs.
Hunter's death had postponed the début 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
superiority of the Hunters came to an end.

For one thing, the estate, considerably diminished by two
inheritance 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 simplicity 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 had ever 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
loneliness.  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, presents 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
friendships.  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 continuities for pictures that Anson went faithfully to

Most of them, however, were permanent commuters with an intricate
family life centering 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 themselves.  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 rôle 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
consideration 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 dissipation.

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. Cahill's 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
window 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

"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
undergraduates, and dancing after dinner at a rural roadhouse, a
diminutive 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
apartment-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
Brooklyn 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

"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 doubtfully.
"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 perceived

"Naw--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

"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 cuspidor.  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 revolving door the figure of a woman, obviously with
child, stood sideways 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 trim
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

"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?"


"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
wondered 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

"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 anything
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
preliminaries 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
carries me up-stairs.  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.


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 I 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

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 principality 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 tam?" he demanded, "the one with
the high color who had the two police dogs down to bid her good-

"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 tam 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 tam, 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, promising him something.  What it was I do not know.
Perhaps they promised 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.


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