GILLESPIE: I love you.
ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it.
GILLESPIE: And you haven’t kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that after a girl was kissed she was—was—won.
ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me.
GILLESPIE: Are you serious?
ROSALIND: About as usual. There used to be two kinds of kisses: First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now there’s a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he’d kissed a girl, every one knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same every one knows it’s because he can’t kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays.
GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men?
ROSALIND: (Leaning forward confidentially) For that first moment, when he’s interested. There is a moment—Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word—something that makes it worth while.
GILLESPIE: And then?
ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty soon he thinks of nothing but being alone with you—he sulks, he won’t fight, he doesn’t want to play—Victory!
(Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.)
RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind.
ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven’t got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie.
(They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.)
RYDER: Your party is certainly a success.
ROSALIND: Is it—I haven’t seen it lately. I’m weary—Do you mind sitting out a minute?
RYDER: Mind—I’m delighted. You know I loathe this “rushing» idea. See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow.
ROSALIND: Dawson!
RYDER: What?
ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me.
RYDER: (Startled) What—Oh—you know you’re remarkable!
ROSALIND: Because you know I’m an awful proposition. Any one who marries me will have his hands full. I’m mean—mighty mean.
RYDER: Oh, I wouldn’t say that.
ROSALIND: Oh, yes, I am—especially to the people nearest to me. (She rises.) Come, let’s go. I’ve changed my mind and I want to dance. Mother is probably having a fit.
(Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.)
CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission.
ALEC: (Gloomily) I’ll go if you want me to.
CECELIA: Good heavens, no—with whom would I begin the next dance? (Sighs.) There’s no color in a dance since the French officers went back.
ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don’t want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind.
CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want.
ALEC: I did, but since seeing these girls—I don’t know. I’m awfully attached to Amory. He’s sensitive and I don’t want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn’t care about him.
CECELIA: He’s very good looking.
ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won’t marry him, but a girl doesn’t have to marry a man to break his heart.
CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret.
ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It’s lucky for some that the Lord gave you a pug nose.
(Enter MRS. CONNAGE.)
MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind?
ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you’ve come to the best people to find out. She’d naturally be with us.
MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to meet her.
ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls.
MRS. CONNAGE: I’m perfectly serious—for all I know she may be at the Cocoanut Grove with some football player on the night of her debut. You look left and I’ll—
ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn’t you better send the butler through the cellar?
MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don’t think she’d be there?
CECELIA: He’s only joking, mother.
ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high hurdler.
MRS. CONNAGE: Let’s look right away.
(They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.)
GILLESPIE: Rosalind—Once more I ask you. Don’t you care a blessed thing about me?
(AMORY 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 unforgettable 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
