Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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The gentleman was young, perhaps twenty-four, and his name was Jim Powell. He was dressed in a tight and dusty suit, the coat of which was evidently expected to take flight at a moment’s notice, for it was secured to his body by a line of eight preposterous buttons.

There were supernumerary buttons upon the coat-sleeves also and Amanthis could not resist a glance to determine whether or not more buttons ran up the side of his trouser leg. In his green hat a feather from some dejected bird fluttered in the warm wind. He bowed formally, dusting his knees with the hat. Simultaneously he smiled, half-shutting his faded blue eyes and displaying white and beautifully symmetrical teeth.

“Good-evenin’,” he said in abandoned Georgian. “My automobile has met with an accident out yonder by your gate. I wondered if it wouldn’t be too much to ask you if I could have the use of a hammer and some tacks for a little while.”

Amanthis laughed. For a moment she laughed uncontrollably. Mr. Jim Powell laughed, politely and appreciatively, with her. His body-servant, deep in the throes of colored adolescence, alone preserved a dignified gravity.