Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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I watched him intently while my hall boy whispered to him, and he walked slowly and consciously over to me to shake hands gravely and escort me to a small table. For an hour we talked of family things, of healths and deaths and births. I could not take my eyes off him. The blood-shot streakedness of his green eyes made me think of weird color combinations in a child’s paint-box. He had been looking bored for about ten minutes, and my talk had been dwindling despondently down, when suddenly he waved his hand as if to brush away a veil, and began to question me.

“Is that damn father of yours still defending me against your mother’s tongue?”

I started, but, strangely, felt no resentment.

“Because,” he went on, “it’s the only thing he ever did for me all his life. He’s a terrible prig. I’d think it would drive you wild to have him in the house.”

“Father feels very kindly toward you, sir,” I said rather stiffly.

“Don’t,” he protested smiling. “Stick to veracity in your own family and don’t bother to lie to me. I’m a totally black figure in your mind, I’m well aware. Am I not?”