accident of personality and upbringing. "I have to go now to catch my train," she said.
"I've never met such a nice girl as you," he said. "You're the nicest girl I've ever met." The waitress had appeared out of nowhere with two more brandies, and he drank his.
"I don't want any," she said, pulling on her gloves.
"We'll go," he said. "We'll go." He took her brandy and drank it too, looking a little self-conscious. ". . . Waste it," he murmm-ed, and then, unaccountably, giggled.
She stood. "Can we go?"
He fumbled with the change and then followed her closely to the door, almost treading on her heels, like an inebriated Saint Bernard. "Don't trip," he breathed, clutching her arm. She had never had less
intention of tripping but was not sure she could say the same for him. Just as they reached the front room she reahzed to her acute embarrassment that Mike Rice was sitting at the bar, alone and gazing solemnly into the mirror. She looked down into her collar hoping he would not see her with Alvin Wiggs—the only boy Mike had ever seen her with, and what an example! It was too late. He had caught sight of her in the mirror and was swiveling around slowly on the bar stool, his eyebrows raised.
"Hi," he said. He nodded at her and at Alvin, and completed the turn to the business end of the bar. But she could see that he was still watching her in the mirror, his face as deadpan as ever, just a touch of amusement in his eyes.
". . . That?" said Alvin.
"Shh."
"Who?"
"He's a writer."
"Oh, introduce me! I want to meet one of your writer friends." He was pulling her back now, to the bar.
"Alvin, please!"
"Can I buy you kids a drink?" Mike said. His pleasant tone and the reference to herself and Alvin as "kids" seemed to take away some of the onerousness of being here with a neurotic balding man ten years her senior who had gotten drunk on four double brandies and was determined to act ten years old.
Alvin was holding out his hand. "I want to meet a famous author. I'm Alvin Wiggs."
Mike allowed his hand to be used as a hitching post and looked quizzically at Caroline. She took a deep breath. "And this is Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald," she said.
"F. Scott Fitzgerald?" said Alvin. Slowly his face lighted up. "Oh, we studied you in college. You wrote about . . . the twenties and things. I'm very glad to meet you."
"I'm glad to meet you too," Mike said. He looked from Alvin to Caroline.
"Y'know," Alvin said, "I thought you were dead. Isn't that awful?"
"Disgraceful," Mike said solemnly. 'Tou should be ashamed to tell me such a thing. I'm hurt."
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Alvin said. "Here, let me buy you a drink. I'm so glad to meet you."
Mike gestured to the bartender for a round of drinks. Caroline could see that he was a well-known customer here. She wondered when he would start the round of Third Avenue saloons Mary Agnes had talked about; after midnight, probably.
"Are you two old friends?" Mike asked.
"We just met tonight," Caroline said. "On a blind date." She looked at him significantly.
"Wasn't that lucky?" Alvin said happily. He swallowed his drink, said thickly, " 'Scuse me," with a beatific smile, and liu"ched off in the direction of the men's room, bumping into a couple on the way.
"Oh, I can't stand it," Caroline said, "I can't stand it." Despite her embarrassment she was so relieved to see Mike, he seemed like such a sane and welcome face, that she began to laugh.
"What are these blind dates?" he asked curiously.
"An old American institution of mismating. Haven't you ever been on one?"
"No," he said with rehef. "I married when I was eighteen. Besides, no one I knew cared whether I had a social life or not. This barbaric custom of yours must be typically Port Blair."
"It isn't at all."
"How are you going to get away from him? Will you be all right?"
"It's all my fault," she said. "I made him take that first step on the lonesome road with Demon Rum. How was I supposed to know he was Doctor JekyU and Mr. Hyde? I
"I've never met such a nice girl as you," he said. "You're the nicest girl I've ever met." The waitress had appeared out of nowhere with two more brandies, and he drank his.
"I don't want any," she said, pulling on her gloves.
"We'll go," he said. "We'll go." He took her brandy and drank it too, looking a little self-conscious. ". . . Waste it," he murmm-ed, and then, unaccountably, giggled.
She stood. "Can we go?"
He fumbled with the change and then followed her closely to the door, almost treading on her heels, like an inebriated Saint Bernard. "Don't trip," he breathed, clutching her arm. She had never had less
intention of tripping but was not sure she could say the same for him. Just as they reached the front room she reahzed to her acute embarrassment that Mike Rice was sitting at the bar, alone and gazing solemnly into the mirror. She looked down into her collar hoping he would not see her with Alvin Wiggs—the only boy Mike had ever seen her with, and what an example! It was too late. He had caught sight of her in the mirror and was swiveling around slowly on the bar stool, his eyebrows raised.
"Hi," he said. He nodded at her and at Alvin, and completed the turn to the business end of the bar. But she could see that he was still watching her in the mirror, his face as deadpan as ever, just a touch of amusement in his eyes.
". . . That?" said Alvin.
"Shh."
"Who?"
"He's a writer."
"Oh, introduce me! I want to meet one of your writer friends." He was pulling her back now, to the bar.
"Alvin, please!"
"Can I buy you kids a drink?" Mike said. His pleasant tone and the reference to herself and Alvin as "kids" seemed to take away some of the onerousness of being here with a neurotic balding man ten years her senior who had gotten drunk on four double brandies and was determined to act ten years old.
Alvin was holding out his hand. "I want to meet a famous author. I'm Alvin Wiggs."
Mike allowed his hand to be used as a hitching post and looked quizzically at Caroline. She took a deep breath. "And this is Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald," she said.
"F. Scott Fitzgerald?" said Alvin. Slowly his face lighted up. "Oh, we studied you in college. You wrote about . . . the twenties and things. I'm very glad to meet you."
"I'm glad to meet you too," Mike said. He looked from Alvin to Caroline.
"Y'know," Alvin said, "I thought you were dead. Isn't that awful?"
"Disgraceful," Mike said solemnly. 'Tou should be ashamed to tell me such a thing. I'm hurt."
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Alvin said. "Here, let me buy you a drink. I'm so glad to meet you."
Mike gestured to the bartender for a round of drinks. Caroline could see that he was a well-known customer here. She wondered when he would start the round of Third Avenue saloons Mary Agnes had talked about; after midnight, probably.
"Are you two old friends?" Mike asked.
"We just met tonight," Caroline said. "On a blind date." She looked at him significantly.
"Wasn't that lucky?" Alvin said happily. He swallowed his drink, said thickly, " 'Scuse me," with a beatific smile, and liu"ched off in the direction of the men's room, bumping into a couple on the way.
"Oh, I can't stand it," Caroline said, "I can't stand it." Despite her embarrassment she was so relieved to see Mike, he seemed like such a sane and welcome face, that she began to laugh.
"What are these blind dates?" he asked curiously.
"An old American institution of mismating. Haven't you ever been on one?"
"No," he said with rehef. "I married when I was eighteen. Besides, no one I knew cared whether I had a social life or not. This barbaric custom of yours must be typically Port Blair."
"It isn't at all."
"How are you going to get away from him? Will you be all right?"
"It's all my fault," she said. "I made him take that first step on the lonesome road with Demon Rum. How was I supposed to know he was Doctor JekyU and Mr. Hyde? I
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