Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

416 страница из 1457

He was in rather grotesque condition: two days of worry and nervousness, of sleepless nights, of untouched meals, culminating in the emotional crisis and Rosalind’s abrupt decision—the strain of it had drugged the foreground of his mind into a merciful coma. As he fumbled clumsily with the olives at the free-lunch table, a man approached and spoke to him, and the olives dropped from his nervous hands.

“Well, Amory …”

It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the name.

“Hello, old boy—” he heard himself saying.

“Name’s Jim Wilson—you’ve forgotten.”

“Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember.”

“Going to reunion?”

“You know!” Simultaneously he realized that he was not going to reunion.

“Get overseas?”

Amory nodded, his eyes staring oddly. Stepping back to let some one pass, he knocked the dish of olives to a crash on the floor.

“Too bad,” he muttered. “Have a drink?”

Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on the back.

“You’ve had plenty, old boy.”

Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew embarrassed under the scrutiny.