This Side of Paradise (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) by F. Scott Fitzgerald Page A

excel in the winter sports, and with his ankles aching and bending in spite of his efforts, he skated valiantly around the Lorelie rink every afternoon, wondering how soon he would be able to carry a hockey-stick without getting it inexplicably tangled in his skates.
    The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire’s bobbing e party spent the morning in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical affair with a dusty piece of peanut brittle. During the afternoon he brought it to light with a sigh, and after some consideration and a preliminary draft in the back of Collar and Daniel’s “First-Year Latin,” composed an answer:
    My dear Miss St. Claire:
    Your truly charming envitation for the evening of next Thursday evening was truly delightful to recieve this morning. I will be charm and inchanted indeed to present my compliments on next Thursday evening.
    Faithfully,
Amory Blaine.
    On Thursday, therefore, he walked pensively along the slippery, shovel-scraped sidewalks, and came in sight of Myra’s house, on the half-hour after five, a lateness which he fancied his mother would have favored. He waited on the door-step with his eyes nonchalantly half-closed, and planned his entrance with precision. He would cross the floor, not too hastily, to Mrs. St. Claire, and say with exactly the correct modulation:
    “My dear Mrs. St. Claire, I’m frightfully sorry to be late, but my maid”—he paused there and realized he would be quoting—“but my uncle and I had to see a fella—Yes, I’ve met your enchanting daughter at dancing-school.”
    Then he would shake hands, using that slight, half-foreign bow, with all the starchy little females, and nod to the fellas who would be standing ’round, paralyzed into rigid groups for mutual protection.
    A butler (one of the three in Minneapolis) swung open the door. Amory stepped inside and divested himself of cap and coat. He was mildly surprised not to hear the shrill squawk of conversation from the next room, and he decided it must be quite formal. He approved of that—as he approved of the butler.
    “Miss Myra,” he said.
    To his surprise the butler grinned horribly.
    “Oh, yeah,” he declared, “she’s here.” He was unaware that his failure to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered him coldly.
    “But,” continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, “she’s the only one what is here. The party’s gone.”
    Amory gasped in sudden horror.
    “What?”
    “She’s been waitin’ for Amory Blaine. That’s you, ain’t it? Her mother says that if you showed up by five-thirty you two was to go after ’em in the Packard.”
    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, anyways.”
    “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 bob 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