By F. Scott Fitzgerald
Ⅰ
The sunlight dripped over the house like golden paint overan art jar， and the freckling shadows here and there onlyintensified the rigor of the bath of light. The Butterworth andLarkin houses flanking were entrenched behind great stodgytrees； only the Happer house took the full sun， and all day longfaced the dusty road-street with a tolerant kindly patience. Thiswas the city of Tarleton in southernmost Georgia， Septemberafternoon.
Up in her bedroom window Sally Carrol Happer rested hernineteen-year-old chin on a fifty-two-year-old sill and watchedClark Darrow’s ancient Ford turn the corner. The car washot—being partly metallic it retained all the heat it absorbed orevolved—and Clark Darrow sitting bolt upright at the wheelwore a pained， strained expression as though he consideredhimself a spare part， and rather likely to break. He laboriouslycrossed two dust ruts， the wheels squeaking indignantly atthe encounter， and then with a terrifying expression he gavethe steering-gear a final wrench and deposited self and carapproximately in front of the Happer steps. There was aheaving sound， a death-rattle， followed by a short silence； andthen the air was rent by a startling whistle.
Sally Carrol gazed down sleepily. She started to yawn， butfinding this quite impossible unless she raised her chin fromthe window-sill， changed her mind and continued silently toregard the car， whose owner sat brilliantly if perfunctorilyat attention as he waited for an answer to his signal. After amoment the whistle once more split the dusty air.
“Good mawnin’.”
With difficulty Clark twisted his tall body round and bent adistorted glance on the window.
“Tain’t mawnin’， Sally Carrol.”
“Isn’t it， sure enough？”
“What you doin’？”
“Eatin’ ‘n apple.”
“Come on go swimmin’—want to？”
“Reckon so.”
“How ‘bout hurryin’ up？”
“Sure enough.”
Sally Carrol sighed voluminously and raised herself withprofound inertia from the floor where she had been occupied inalternately destroyed parts of a green apple and painting paperdolls for her younger sister. She approached a mirror， regardedher expression with a pleased and pleasant languor， dabbedtwo spots of rouge on her lips and a grain of powder on hernose， and covered her bobbed corn-colored hair with a roselitteredsunbonnet. Then she kicked over the painting water，said， “Oh， damn！”—but let it lay—and left the room.
“How you， Clark？” she inquired a minute later as she slippednimbly over the side of the car.
“Mighty fine， Sally Carrol.”
“Where we go swimmin’？”
“Out to Walley’s Pool. Told Marylyn we’d call by an’ get heran’ Joe Ewing.”
Clark was dark and lean， and when on foot was ratherinclined to stoop. His eyes were ominous and his expressionsomewhat petulant except when startlingly illuminated by oneof his frequent smiles. Clark had “an income”—just enough tokeep himself in ease and his car in gasolene—and he had spentthe two years since he graduated from Georgia Tech in dozinground the lazy streets of his home town， discussing how hecould best invest his capital for an immediate fortune.
Hanging round he found not at all difficult； a crowd oflittle girls had grown up beautifully， the amazing Sally Carrolforemost among them； and they enjoyed being swum with anddanced with and made love to in the flower-filled summeryevenings—and they all liked Clark immensely. When femininecompany palled there were half a dozen other youths who werealways just about to do something， and meanwhile were quitewilling to join him in a few holes of golf， or a game of billiards，or the consumption of a quart of “hard yella licker.” Every oncein a while one of these contemporaries made a farewell round ofcalls before going up to New York or Philadelphia or Pittsburghto go into business， but mostly they just stayed round in thislanguid paradise of dreamy skies and firefly evenings and noisynigger street fairs—and especially of gracious， soft-voiced girls，who were brought up on memories instead of money.
The Ford having been excited into a sort of restless resentfullife Clark and Sally Carrol rolled and rattled down ValleyAvenue into Jefferson Street， where the dust road became apavement； along opiate Millicent Place， where there werehalf a dozen prosperous， substantial mansions； and on intothe down-town section. Driving was perilous here， for itwas shopping time； the population idled casually across thestreets and a drove of low-moaning oxen were being urgedalong in front of a placid street-car； even the shops seemedonly yawning their doors and blinking their windows in thesunshine before retiring into a state of utter and finite coma.
“Sally Carrol，” said Clark suddenly， “it a fact that you’reengaged？”
She looked at him quickly.
“Where’d you hear that？”
“Sure enough， you engaged？”
“‘At’s a nice question！”
“Girl told me you were engaged to a Yankee you met up inAsheville last summer.”
Sally Carrol sighed.
“Never saw such an old town for rumors.”
“Don’t marry a Yankee， Sally Carrol. We need you roundhere.”
Sally Carrol was silent a moment.
“Clark，” she demanded suddenly， “who on earth shall Imarry？”
“I offer my services.”
“Honey， you couldn’t support a wife，” she answered cheerfully.
“Anyway， I know you too well to fall in love with you.”
“‘At doesn’t mean you ought to marry a Yankee，” he persisted.
“S’pose I love him？”
He shook his head.
“You couldn’t. He’d be a lot different from us， every way.”
He broke off as he halted the car in front of a rambling，dilapidated house. Marylyn Wade and Joe Ewing appeared inthe doorway.
“‘Lo Sally Carrol.”
“Hi！”
“How you-all？”
“Sally Carrol，” demanded Marylyn as they started of again，“you engaged？”
“Lawdy， where’d all this start？ Can’t I look at a man ‘thouteverybody in town engagin’ me to him？”
Clark stared straight in front of him at a bolt on the clatteringwind-shield.
“Sally Carrol，” he said with a curious intensity， “don’t you‘like us？”
“What？”
“Us down here？”
