F I T ZG E R A L D
“Answer my question, Madeline.” “Don’t remember them all—besides my name isn’t Madeline, it’s Eleanor.” “I might have guessed it. You look like Eleanor—you have that Eleanor look. You know what I mean.” There was a silence as they listened to the rain. “It’s going down my neck, fellow lunatic,” she offered finally. “Answer my questions.” “Well—name of Savage, Eleanor; live in big old house mile down road; nearest living relation to be notified, grandfather—Ramilly Savage; height, five feet four inches; number on watch–case, 3077 W; nose, delicate aquiline; temperament, uncanny—” “And me,” Amory interrupted, “where did you see me?” “Oh, you’re one of those men,” she answered haughtily, “must lug old self into conversation. Well, my boy, I was behind a hedge sunning myself one day last week, and along comes a man saying in a pleasant, conceited way of talking: “’And now when the night was senescent’ (says he) ‘And the star dials pointed to morn At the end of the path a liquescent (says he) ‘And nebulous lustre was born.’ “So I poked my eyes up over the hedge, but you had started to run, for some unknown reason, and so I saw but the back of your beautiful head. ‘Oh!’ says I, ‘there’s a man for whom many of us might sigh,’ and I continued in my best Irish—” “All right,” Amory interrupted. “Now go back to yourself.” “Well, I will. I’m one of those people who go through the world giving other people thrills, but getting few myself except those I read into 233