This Side of Paradise

Amory’s despair was crystallized by the appearance of Myra herself, bundled to the ears in a polo coat, her face plainly sulky, her voice pleasant only with difficulty. “‘Lo, Amory.” “‘Lo, Myra.” He had described the state of his vitality. “Well--you _got_ here, _any_ways.” “Well--I’ll tell you. I guess you don’t know about the auto accident,” he romanced. Myra’s eyes opened wide. “Who was it to?” “Well,” he continued desperately, “uncle ‘n aunt ‘n I.” “Was any one _killed?_” Amory paused and then nodded. “Your uncle?”--alarm. “Oh, no just a horse--a sorta gray horse.” At this point the Erse butler snickered. “Probably killed the engine,” he suggested. Amory would have put him on the rack without a scruple. “We’ll go now,” said Myra coolly. “You see, Amory, the bobs were ordered for five and everybody was here, so we couldn’t wait--” “Well, I couldn’t help it, could I?” “So mama said for me to wait till ha’past five. We’ll catch the bobs before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory.” Amory’s shredded poise dropped from him. He pictured the happy party jingling along snowy streets, the appearance of the limousine, the horrible public descent of him and Myra before sixty reproachful eyes, his apology--a real one this time. He sighed aloud. “What?” inquired Myra. “Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ catch up with ‘em before they get there?” He was encouraging a faint hope that they might slip into the Minnehaha Club and meet the others there, be found in blasé seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude. “Oh, sure Mike, we’ll catch ‘em all right--let’s hurry.” He became conscious of his stomach. As they stepped into the machine he hurriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy over a rather box-like plan he had conceived. It was based upon some “trade-lasts” gleaned at dancing-school, to the effect that he was “awful good-looking and _English_, sort of.” “Myra,” he said, lowering his voice and choosing his words carefully, “I beg a thousand pardons. Can you ever forgive me?” She regarded him gravely, his intent green eyes, his mouth, that to her thirteen-year-old, arrow-collar taste was the quintessence of romance. Yes, Myra could forgive him very easily. “Why--yes--sure.” He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes. “I’m awful,” he said sadly. “I’m diff’runt. I don’t know why I make faux pas. ‘Cause I don’t care, I s’pose.” Then, recklessly: “I been smoking too much. I’ve got t’bacca heart.” Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and reeling from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp. “Oh, _Amory_, don’t smoke. You’ll stunt your _growth!_” “I don’t care,” he persisted gloomily. “I gotta. I got the habit. I’ve done a lot of things that if my fambly knew”--he hesitated, giving her imagination time to picture dark horrors--“I went to the burlesque show last week.” Myra was quite overcome. He turned the green eyes on her again. “You’re the only girl in town I like much,” he exclaimed in a rush of sentiment. “You’re simpatico.” Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though vaguely improper. Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a sudden turn she was jolted against him; their hands touched. “You shouldn’t smoke, Amory,” she whispered. “Don’t you know that?” He shook his head. “Nobody cares.” Myra hesitated. “_I_ care.” Something stirred within Amory. “Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess everybody knows that.” “No, I haven’t,” very slowly.