Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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A series of details now began to impress themselves on Bushmill—that there were hollows in this young man’s cheeks that were not intended by the bone structure, hollows of undernourishment or ill health; that the fine flannel of his unmistakably Bond Street suit was shiny from many pressings—the elbows were fairly gleaming—and that his whole frame had suddenly collapsed a little as if the digestion of the potatoes and milk shake had begun immediately instead of waiting for the correct half hour.

“Born here, eh?” he said thoughtfully. “Lived a lot abroad, I guess.”

“Yes.”

“How long since you’ve had a square meal?”

The young man started.

“Why, I had lunch,” he said. “About one o’clock I had lunch.”

“One o’clock last Friday,” commented Bushmill skeptically.

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” admitted Corcoran, “about one o’clock last Friday.”

“Are you broke? Or are you waiting for money from home?”

“This is home.” Corcoran looked around abstractedly. “I’ve spent most of my life in the Ritz hotels of one city or another. I don’t think they’d believe me upstairs if I told them I was broke. But I’ve got just enough left to pay my bill when I move out tomorrow.”