Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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When Sylvester walked at night he frequently glanced behind and on both sides to see if anyone was sneaking up on him. This had become a constant mannerism. For this reason he was unable to pretend that he didn’t see Betty Tearle sitting in her machine in front of Tiffany’s.

Back in his early twenties he had been in love with Betty Tearle. But he had depressed her. He had misanthropically dissected every meal, motor trip and musical comedy that they attended together, and on the few occasions when she had tried to be especially nice to him—from a mother’s point of view he had been rather desirable—he had suspected hidden motives and fallen into a deeper gloom than ever. Then one day she told him that she would go mad if he ever again parked his pessimism in her sun-parlor.

And ever since then she had seemed to be smiling—uselessly, insultingly, charmingly smiling.

“Hello, Sylvo,” she called.

“Why—how do Betty.” He wished she wouldn’t call him Sylvo—it sounded like a—like a darn monkey or something.