Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald Page A

were meeting for the first time. Brady was quick and strenuous. As he took her hand she saw him look her over from head to foot, a gesture she recognized and that made her feel at home, but gave her always a faint feeling of superiority to whoever made it. If her person was property she could exercise whatever advantage was inherent in its ownership.
    â€œI thought you’d be along any day now,” Brady said, in a voice that was just a little too compelling for private life, and that trailed with it a faintly defiant cockney accent. “Have a good trip?”
    â€œYes, but we’re glad to be going home.”
    â€œNo-o-o!” he protested. “Stay awhile—I want to talk to you. Let me tell you that was some picture of yours—that ‘Daddy’s Girl.’ I saw it in Paris. I wired the coast right away to see if you were signed.”
    â€œI just had—I’m sorry.”
    â€œGod, what a picture!”
    Not wanting to smile in silly agreement Rosemary frowned.
    â€œNobody wants to be thought of forever for just one picture,” she said.
    â€œSure—that’s right. What’re your plans?”
    â€œMother thought I needed a rest. When I get back we’ll probably either sign up with First National or keep on with Famous.”
    â€œWho’s we?”
    â€œMy mother. She decides business matters. I couldn’t do without her.”
    Again he looked her over completely, and, as he did, something in Rosemary went out to him. It was not liking, not at all the spontaneous admiration she had felt for the man on the beach this morning. It was a click. He desired her and, so far as her virginal emotions went, she contemplated a surrender with equanimity. Yet she knew she would forget him half an hour after she left him—like an actor kissed in a picture.
    â€œWhere are you staying?” Brady asked. “Oh, yes, at Gausse’s. Well, my plans are made for this year, too, but that letter I wrote you still stands. Rather make a picture with you than any girl since Connie Talmadge was a kid.” 4
    â€œI feel the same way. Why don’t you come back to Hollywood?”
    â€œI can’t stand the damn place. I’m fine here. Wait till after this shot and I’ll show you around.”
    Walking onto the set he began to talk to the French actor in a low, quiet voice.
    Five minutes passed—Brady talked on, while from time to time the Frenchman shifted his feet and nodded. Abruptly, Brady broke off, calling something to the lights that startled them into a humming glare. Los Angeles was loud about Rosemary now. Unappalled she moved once more through the city of thin partitions, wanting to be back there. But she did not want to see Brady in the mood she sensed he would be in after he had finished and she left the lot with a spell still upon her. The Mediterranean world was less silent now that she knew the studio was there. She likedthe people on the streets and bought herself a pair of espadrilles on the way to the train.
    Her mother was pleased that she had done so accurately what she was told to do, but she still wanted to launch her out and away. Mrs. Speers was fresh in appearance but she was tired; death beds make people tired indeed and she had watched beside a couple.
VI
    F EELING good from the rosy wine at lunch, Nicole Diver folded her arms high enough for the artificial camellia on her shoulder to touch her cheek, and went out into her lovely grassless garden. The garden was bounded on one side by the house, from which it flowed and into which it ran, on two sides by the old village, and on the last by the cliff falling by ledges to the sea.
    Along the walls on the village side all was dusty, the wriggling vines, the lemon and eucalyptus trees, the casual wheel-barrow, left only a moment since, but already grown into the path, atrophied and faintly rotten. Nicole was invariably somewhat surprised that by turning in the other