Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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She laughed and shook her head.

“Oh, no, you’re not a bird at all, do you think? You’re a Russian wolfhound.”

Anthony remembered that they were white and always looked unnaturally hungry. But then they were usually photographed with dukes and princesses, so he was properly flattered.

“Dick’s a fox terrier, a trick fox terrier,” she continued.

“And Maury’s a cat.” Simultaneously it occurred to him how like Bloeckman was to a robust and offensive hog. But he preserved a discreet silence.

Later, as they parted, Anthony asked when he might see her again.

“Don’t you ever make long engagements?” he pleaded, “even if it’s a week ahead, I think it’d be fun to spend a whole day together, morning and afternoon both.”

“It would be, wouldn’t it?” She thought for a moment. “Let’s do it next Sunday.”

“All right. I’ll map out a programme that’ll take up every minute.”

He did. He even figured to a nicety what would happen in the two hours when she would come to his apartment for tea: how the good Bounds would have the windows wide to let in the fresh breeze—but a fire going also lest there be chill in the air—and how there would be clusters of flowers about in big cool bowls that he would buy for the occasion. They would sit on the lounge.