Free Babylon Revisited by F. Scott Fitzgerald, JAMES L. W. WEST III

You’re a good woman. I can’t tell a good woman the story.”
    “Rot,” she said, defiantly. “I think it’s a perfect insult to call any one a good woman in that way. It’s a slam. You’ve been drinking, Gordon.”
    “Thanks.” He inclined his head gravely. “Thanks for the information.”
    “Why do you drink?”
    “Because I’m so damn miserable.”
    “Do you think drinking’s going to make it any better?”
    “What you doing—trying to reform me?”
    “No; I’m trying to help you, Gordon. Can’t you tell me about it?”
    “I’m in an awful mess. Best thing you can do is to pretend not to know me.”
    “Why, Gordon?”
    “I’m sorry I cut in on you—it’s unfair to you. You’re pure woman—and all that sort of thing. Here, I’ll get some one else to dance with you.”
    He rose clumsily to his feet, but she reached up and pulled him down beside her on the stairs.
    “Here, Gordon. You’re ridiculous. You’re hurting me. You’re acting like a—like a crazy man——”
    “I admit it. I’m a little crazy. Something’s wrong with me, Edith. There’s something left me. It doesn’t matter.”
    “It does, tell me.”
    “Just that. I was always queer—little bit different from other boys. All right in college, but now it’s all wrong. Things have been snapping inside me for four months like little hooks on a dress, and it’s about to come off when a few more hooks go. I’m very gradually going loony.”
    He turned his eyes full on her and began to laugh, and she shrank away from him.
    “What
is
the matter?”
    “Just me,” he repeated. “I’m going loony. This whole place is like a dream to me—this Delmonico’s——”
    As he talked she saw he had changed utterly. He wasn’t at all light and gay and careless—a great lethargy and discouragement had comeover him. Revulsion seized her, followed by a faint, surprising boredom. His voice seemed to come out of a great void.
    “Edith,” he said, “I used to think I was clever, talented, an artist. Now I know I’m nothing. Can’t draw, Edith. Don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
    She nodded absently.
    “I can’t draw, I can’t do anything. I’m poor as a church mouse.” He laughed, bitterly and rather too loud. “I’ve become a damn beggar, a leech on my friends. I’m a failure. I’m poor as hell.”
    Her distaste was growing. She barely nodded this time, waiting for her first possible cue to rise.
    Suddenly Gordon’s eyes filled with tears.
    “Edith,” he said, turning to her with what was evidently a strong effort at self-control, “I can’t tell you what it means to me to know there’s one person left who’s interested in me.”
    He reached out and patted her hand, and involuntarily she drew it away.
    “It’s mighty fine of you,” he repeated.
    “Well,” she said slowly, looking him in the eye, “any one’s always glad to see an old friend—but I’m sorry to see you like this, Gordon.”
    There was a pause while they looked at each other, and the momentary eagerness in his eyes wavered. She rose and stood looking at him, her face quite expressionless.
    “Shall we dance?” she suggested, coolly.
    —Love is fragile—she was thinking—but perhaps the pieces are saved, the things that hovered on lips, that might have been said. The new love words, the tendernesses learned, are treasured up for the next lover.
    Peter Himmel, escort to the lovely Edith, was unaccustomed to being snubbed; having been snubbed, he was hurt and embarrassed, and ashamed of himself. For a matter of two months he had been on special delivery terms with Edith Bradin and, knowing that the one excuse and explanation of the special delivery letter is its value in sentimental correspondence, he had believed himself quite sure of his ground. Hesearched in vain for any reason why she should have taken this attitude in the matter of a simple kiss.
    Therefore when he was cut in on by the man with the mustache he went out into