THE UNCOLLECTED TALES OF 1926-1934 (38 Short Stories in One Edition). F. Scott Fitzgerald

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СКАЧАТЬ she smiled at him innocently.

      “Don’t you feel better, Henry?” she asked eagerly.

      “What?”

      “Less tired, less worried?”

      “Who said I was tired and worried? I never felt better in my life.”

      “There you are.” She looked at him triumphantly. “You laugh at my theories but this time you’ll have to admit there’s something in them. You feel better because you haven’t had sugar in your coffee for over a week.”

      He looked at her incredulously.

      “What have I had?”

      “Saccharine.”

      He got up indignantly and threw his newspaper on the table.

      “I might have known it,” he broke out. “All that bringing it out from the kitchen. What the devil is saccharine?”

      “It’s a substitute, for people who have a tendency to run to fat.”

      For a moment he hovered on the edge of anger, then he sat down shaking with laughter.

      “It’s done you good,” she said reproachfully.

      “Well, it won’t do me good any more,” he said grimly. “I’m thirty-four years old and I haven’t been sick a day in ten years. I’ve forgotten more about my constitution than you’ll ever know.”

      “You don’t live a healthy life, Henry. It’s after forty that things begin to tell.”

      “Saccharine!” he exclaimed, again breaking into laughter. “Saccharine! I thought perhaps it was something to keep me from drink. You know they have these—”

      Suddenly she grew angry.

      “Well why not? You ought to be ashamed to be so fat at your age. You wouldn’t be if you took a little exercise and didn’t lie around in bed all morning.”

      Words utterly failed her,

      “If I wanted to be a farmer,” said her husband quietly, “I wouldn’t have left home. This saccharine business is over today—do you see?”

      Their financial situation rapidly improved. By the second year of the war they were keeping a limousine and chauffeur and began to talk vaguely of a nice summer house on Long Island Sound. Month by month a swelling stream of materials flowed through the ledgers of Drinkwater and McComas to be dumped on the insatiable bonfire across the ocean. Their staff of clerks tripled and the atmosphere of the office was so charged with energy and achievement that Stella herself often liked to wander in on some pretext during the afternoon.

      One day early in 1916 she called to learn that Mr. McComas was out and was on the point of leaving when she ran into Ted Drinkwater coming out of the elevator.

      “Why, Stella,” he exclaimed, “I was thinking about you only this morning.”

      The Drinkwaters and the McComases were close if not particularly spontaneous friends. Nothing but their husbands’ intimate association would have thrown the two women together, yet they were “Henry, Ted, Mollie, and Stella” to each other and in ten years scarcely a month had passed without their partaking in a superficially cordial family dinner. The dinner being over, each couple indulged in an unsparing post-mortem over the other without, however, any sense of disloyalty. They were used to each other—so Stella was somewhat surprised by Ted Drinkwater’s personal eagerness at meeting her this afternoon.

      “I want to see you,” he said in his intent direct way. “Have you got a minute, Stella? Could you come into my office?”

      “Why, yes.”

      As they walked between rows of typists toward the glassed privacy of THEODORE DRINKWATER, PRESIDENT, Stella could not help thinking that he made a more appropriate business figure than her husband. He was lean, terse, quick. His eye glanced keenly from right to left as if taking the exact measure of every clerk and stenographer in sight.

      “Sit down, Stella.”

      She waited, a feeling of vague apprehension stealing over her.

      Drinkwater frowned.

      “It’s about Henry,” he said.

      “Is he sick?” she demanded quickly.

      “No. Nothing like that.” He hesitated. “Stella, I’ve always thought you were a woman with a lot of common sense.”

      She waited.

      “This is a thing that’s been on my mind for over a year,” he continued. “He and I have battled it out so often that—that a certain coldness has grown up between us.”

      “Yes?” Stella’s eyes blinked nervously.

      “It’s about the business,” said Drinkwater abruptly. “A coldness with a business partner is a mighty unpleasant thing.”

      “What’s the matter?”

      “The old story, Stella. These are big years for us and he thinks business is going to wait while he carries on in the old country-store way. Down at eleven, hour and a half for lunch, won’t be nice to a man he doesn’t like for love or money. In the last six months he’s lost us about three sizable orders by things like that.”

      Instinctively she sprang to her husband’s defense.

      “But hasn’t he saved money too by going slow? On that thing about the copper, you wanted to sign right away and Henry—”

      “Oh, that—” He waved it aside a little hurriedly. “I’m the last man to deny that Henry has a wonderful instinct in certain ways—”

      “But it was a great big thing,” she interrupted, “It would have practically ruined you if he hadn’t put his foot down. He said—”

      She pulled herself up short.

      “Oh, I don’t know,” said Drinkwater with an expression of annoyance, “perhaps not so bad as that. Anyway, we all make mistakes and that’s aside from the question. We have the opportunity right now of jumping into Class A. I mean it. Another two years of this kind of business and we can each put away our first million dollars. And, Stella, whatever happens, I am determined to put away mine. Even—” He considered his words for a moment. “Even if it comes to breaking with Henry.”

      “Oh!” Stella exclaimed. “I hope—”

      “I hope not too. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Can’t you do something, Stella? You’re about the only person he’ll listen to. He’s so darn pig-headed he can’t understand how he disorganizes the office. Get him up in the morning. No man ought to lie in bed till eleven.”

      “He gets up at half past nine.”

      “He’s down here at eleven. That’s what counts. Stir him up. Tell him you want СКАЧАТЬ