Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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Rosalind: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie?

Mrs. Connage: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he comes.

Rosalind: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. They’re all wrong.

Mrs. Connage: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you to-night.

Rosalind: Don’t you think I’m beautiful?

Mrs. Connage: You know you are.

(From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the roll of a drum. Mrs. Connage turns quickly to her daughter.)

Mrs. Connage: Come!

Rosalind: One minute!

(Her mother leaves. Rosalind goes to the glass where she gazes at herself with great satisfaction. She kisses her hand and touches her mirrored mouth with it. Then she turns out the lights and leaves the room. Silence for a moment. A few chords from the piano, the discreet patter of faint drums, the rustle of new silk, all blend on the staircase outside and drift in through the partly opened door. Bundled figures pass in the lighted hall. The laughter heard below becomes doubled and multiplied. Then some one comes in, closes the door, and switches on the lights. It is Cecelia. She goes to the chiffonier, looks in the drawers, hesitates—then to the desk whence she takes the cigarette-case and extracts one. She lights it and then, puffing and blowing, walks toward the mirror.)