Part IV

IT BEGAN like that--and continued, with varying shades of intensity, on such a note right up to the denouement. Dexter surrendered a part of himself to the most direct and unprincipled personality with which he had ever come in contact. Whatever Judy wanted, she went after with the full pressure of her charm. There was no divergence of method, no jockeying for position or premeditation of effects--there was a very little mental side to any of her affairs. She simply made men conscious to the highest degree of her physical loveliness. Dexter had no desire to change her. Her deficiencies were knit up with a passionate energy that transcended and justified them. When, as Judy's head lay against his shoulder that first night, she whispered, "I don't know what's the matter with me. Last night I thought I was in love with a man and to-night I think I'm in love with you----"--it seemed to him a beautiful and romantic thing to say. It was the exquisite excitability that for the moment he controlled and owned. But a week later he was compelled to view this same quality in a different light. She took him in her roadster to a picnic supper, and after supper she disappeared, likewise in her roadster, with another man. Dexter became enormously upset and was scarcely able to be decently civil to the other people present. When she assured him that she had not kissed the other man, he knew she was lying--yet he was glad that she had taken the trouble to lie to him.

He was, as he found before the summer ended, one of a varying dozen who circulated about her. Each of them had at one time been favored above all others--about half of them still basked in the solace of occasional sentimental revivals. Whenever one showed signs of dropping out through long neglect, she granted him a brief honeyed hour, which encouraged him to tag along for a year or so longer. Judy made these forays upon the helpless and defeated without malice, indeed half unconscious that there was anything mischievous in what she did.

When a new man came to town every one dropped out--dates were automatically cancelled.

The helpless part of trying to do anything about it was that she did it all herself. She was not a girl who could be "won" in the kinetic sense--she was proof against cleverness, she was proof against charm; if any of these assailed her too strongly she would immediately resolve the affair to a physical basis, and under the magic of her physical splendor the strong as well as the brilliant played her game and not their own. She was entertained only by the gratification of her desires and by the direct exercise of her own charm. Perhaps from so much youthful love, so many youthful lovers, she had come, in self-defense, to nourish herself wholly from within.

Succeeding Dexter's first exhilaration came restlessness and dissatisfaction. The helpless ecstasy of losing himself in her was opiate rather than tonic. It was fortunate for his work during the winter that those moments of ecstasy came infrequently. Early in their acquaintance it had seemed for a while that there was a deep and spontaneous mutual attraction that first August, for example--three days of long evenings on her dusky veranda, of strange wan kisses through the late afternoon, in shadowy alcoves or behind the protecting trellises of the garden arbors, of mornings when she was fresh as a dream and almost shy at meeting him in the clarity of the rising day. There was all the ecstasy of an engagement about it, sharpened by his realization that there was no engagement. It was during those three days that, for the first time, he had asked her to marry him. She said "maybe some day," she said "kiss me," she said "I'd like to marry you," she said "I love you"--she said-- nothing.

The three days were interrupted by the arrival of a New York man who visited at her house for half September. To Dexter's agony, rumor engaged them. The man was the son of the president of a great trust company. But at the end of a month it was reported that Judy was yawning. At a dance one night she sat all evening in a motor-boat with a local beau, while the New Yorker searched the club for her frantically. She told the local beau that she was bored with her visitor, and two days later he left. She was seen with him at the station, and it was reported that he looked very mournful indeed.

On this note the summer ended. Dexter was twenty-four, and he found himself increasingly in a position to do as he wished. He joined two clubs in the city and lived at one of them. Though he was by no means an integral part of the stag-lines at these clubs, he managed to be on hand at dances where Judy Jones was likely to appear. He could have gone out socially as much as he liked--he was an eligible young man, now, and popular with down-town fathers. His confessed devotion to Judy Jones had rather solidified his position. But he had no social aspirations and rather despised the dancing men who were always on tap for the Thursday or Saturday parties and who filled in at dinners with the younger married set. Already he was playing with the idea of going East to New York. He wanted to take Judy Jones with him. No disillusion as to the world in which she had grown up could cure his illusion as to her desirability.

Remember that--for only in the light of it can what he did for her be understood.

Eighteen months after he first met Judy Jones he became engaged to another girl. Her name was Irene Scheerer, and her father was one of the men who had always believed in Dexter. Irene was light-haired and sweet and honorable, and a little stout, and she had two suitors whom she pleasantly relinquished when Dexter formally asked her to marry him.

Summer, fall, winter, spring, another summer, another fall-- so much he had given of his active life to the incorrigible lips of Judy Jones. She had treated him with interest, with encouragement, with malice, with indifference, with contempt. She had inflicted on him the innumerable little slights and indignities possible in such a case--as if in revenge for having ever cared for him at all. She had beckoned him and yawned at him and beckoned him again and he had responded often with bitterness and narrowed eyes. She had brought him ecstatic happiness and intolerable agony of spirit. She had caused him untold inconvenience and not a little trouble. She had insulted him, and she had ridden over him, and she had played his interest in her against his interest in his work--for fun. She had done everything to him except to criticise him--this she had not done-- it seemed to him only because it might have sullied the utter indifference she manifested and sincerely felt toward him.

When autumn had come and gone again it occurred to him that he could not have Judy Jones. He had to beat this into his mind but he convinced himself at last. He lay awake at night for a while and argued it over. He told himself the trouble and the pain she had caused him, he enumerated her glaring deficiencies as a wife. Then he said to himself that he loved her, and after a while he fell asleep. For a week, lest he imagined her husky voice over the telephone or her eyes opposite him at lunch, he worked hard and late, and at night he went to his office and plotted out his years.

At the end of a week he went to a dance and cut in on her once. For almost the first time since they had met he did not ask her to sit out with him or tell her that she was lovely. It hurt him that she did not miss these things--that was all. He was not jealous when he saw that there was a new man to-night. He had been hardened against jealousy long before.

He stayed late at the dance. He sat for an hour with Irene Scheerer and talked about books and about music. He knew very little about either. But he was beginning to be master of his own time now, and he had a rather priggish notion that he--the young and already fabulously successful Dexter Green--should know more about such things.

That was in October, when he was twenty-five. In January, Dexter and Irene became engaged. It was to be announced in June, and they were to be married three months later.

The Minnesota winter prolonged itself interminably, and it was almost May when the winds came soft and the snow ran down into Black Bear Lake at last. For the first time in over a year Dexter was enjoying a certain tranquility of spirit. Judy Jones had been in Florida, and afterward in Hot Springs, and somewhere she had been engaged, and somewhere she had broken it off. At first, when Dexter had definitely given her up, it had made him sad that people still linked them together and asked for news of her, but when he began to be placed at dinner next to Irene Scheerer people didn't ask him about her any more--they told him about her. He ceased to be an authority on her.

May at last. Dexter walked the streets at night when the darkness was damp as rain, wondering that so soon, with so little done, so much of ecstasy had gone from him. May one year back had been marked by Judy's poignant, unforgivable, yet forgiven turbulence--it had been one of those rare times when he fancied she had grown to care for him. That old penny's worth of happiness he had spent for this bushel of content. He knew that Irene would be no more than a curtain spread behind him, a hand moving among gleaming tea-cups, a voice calling to children . . . fire and loveliness were gone, the magic of nights and the wonder of the varying hours and seasons . . . slender lips, down-turning, dropping to his lips and bearing him up into a heaven of eyes. . . . The thing was deep in him. He was too strong and alive for it to die lightly.

In the middle of May when the weather balanced for a few days on the thin bridge that led to deep summer he turned in one night at Irene's house. Their engagement was to be announced in a week now--no one would be surprised at it. And to-night they would sit together on the lounge at the University Club and look on for an hour at the dancers. It gave him a sense of solidity to go with her--she was so sturdily popular, so intensely "great."

He mounted the steps of the brownstone house and stepped inside.

"Irene," he called.

Mrs. Scheerer came out of the living-room to meet him.

"Dexter," she said, "Irene's gone up-stairs with a splitting headache. She wanted to go with you but I made her go to bed."

"Nothing serious, I----"

"Oh, no. She's going to play golf with you in the morning. You can spare her for just one night, can't you, Dexter?"

Her smile was kind. She and Dexter liked each other. In the living-room he talked for a moment before he said good-night.

Returning to the University Club, where he had rooms, he stood in the doorway for a moment and watched the dancers. He leaned against the door-post, nodded at a man or two--yawned.

"Hello, darling."

The familiar voice at his elbow startled him. Judy Jones had left a man and crossed the room to him--Judy Jones, a slender enamelled doll in cloth of gold: gold in a band at her head, gold in two slipper points at her dress's hem. The fragile glow of her face seemed to blossom as she smiled at him. A breeze of warmth and light blew through the room. His hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket tightened spasmodically. He was filled with a sudden excitement.

"When did you get back?" he asked casually.

"Come here and I'll tell you about it."

She turned and he followed her. She had been away--he could have wept at the wonder of her return. She had passed through enchanted streets, doing things that were like provocative music. All mysterious happenings, all fresh and quickening hopes, had gone away with her, come back with her now.

She turned in the doorway.

"Have you a car here? If you haven't, I have."

"I have a coupe."

In then, with a rustle of golden cloth. He slammed the door. Into so many cars she had stepped--like this--like that-- her back against the leather, so--her elbow resting on the door-- waiting. She would have been soiled long since had there been anything to soil her--except herself--but this was her own self outpouring.

With an effort he forced himself to start the car and back into the street. This was nothing, he must remember. She had done this before, and he had put her behind him, as he would have crossed a bad account from his books.

He drove slowly down-town and, affecting abstraction, traversed the deserted streets of the business section, peopled here and there where a movie was giving out its crowd or where consumptive or pugilistic youth lounged in front of pool halls. The clink of glasses and the slap of hands on the bars issued from saloons, cloisters of glazed glass and dirty yellow light.

She was watching him closely and the silence was embarrassing, yet in this crisis he could find no casual word with which to profane the hour. At a convenient turning he began to zigzag back toward the University Club.

"Have you missed me?" she asked suddenly.

"Everybody missed you."

He wondered if she knew of Irene Scheerer. She had been back only a day--her absence had been almost contemporaneous with his engagement.

"What a remark!" Judy laughed sadly--without sadness. She looked at him searchingly. He became absorbed in the dashboard.

"You're handsomer than you used to be," she said thoughtfully. "Dexter, you have the most rememberable eyes."

He could have laughed at this, but he did not laugh. It was the sort of thing that was said to sophomores. Yet it stabbed at him.

"I'm awfully tired of everything, darling." She called every one darling, endowing the endearment with careless, individual comraderie. "I wish you'd marry me."

The directness of this confused him. He should have told her now that he was going to marry another girl, but he could not tell her. He could as easily have sworn that he had never loved her.

"I think we'd get along," she continued, on the same note, "unless probably you've forgotten me and fallen in love with another girl."

Her confidence was obviously enormous. She had said, in effect, that she found such a thing impossible to believe, that if it were true he had merely committed a childish indiscretion-- and probably to show off. She would forgive him, because it was not a matter of any moment but rather something to be brushed aside lightly.

"Of course you could never love anybody but me," she continued. "I like the way you love me. Oh, Dexter, have you forgotten last year?"

"No, I haven't forgotten."

"Neither have I! "

Was she sincerely moved--or was she carried along by the wave of her own acting?

"I wish we could be like that again," she said, and he forced himself to answer:

"I don't think we can."

"I suppose not. . . . I hear you're giving Irene Scheerer a violent rush."

There was not the faintest emphasis on the name, yet Dexter was suddenly ashamed.

"Oh, take me home," cried Judy suddenly; "I don't want to go back to that idiotic dance--with those children."

Then, as he turned up the street that led to the residence district, Judy began to cry quietly to herself. He had never seen her cry before.

The dark street lightened, the dwellings of the rich loomed up around them, he stopped his coupe in front of the great white bulk of the Mortimer Joneses house, somnolent, gorgeous, drenched with the splendor of the damp moonlight. Its solidity startled him. The strong walls, the steel of the girders, the breadth and beam and pomp of it were there only to bring out the contrast with the young beauty beside him. It was sturdy to accentuate her slightness--as if to show what a breeze could be generated by a butterfly's wing.

He sat perfectly quiet, his nerves in wild clamor, afraid that if he moved he would find her irresistibly in his arms. Two tears had rolled down her wet face and trembled on her upper lip.

"I'm more beautiful than anybody else," she said brokenly, "why can't I be happy?" Her moist eyes tore at his stability--her mouth turned slowly downward with an exquisite sadness: "I'd like to marry you if you'll have me, Dexter. I suppose you think I'm not worth having, but I'll be so beautiful for you, Dexter."

A million phrases of anger, pride, passion, hatred, tenderness fought on his lips. Then a perfect wave of emotion washed over him, carrying off with it a sediment of wisdom, of convention, of doubt, of honor. This was his girl who was speaking, his own, his beautiful, his pride.

"Won't you come in?" He heard her draw in her breath sharply.


"All right," his voice was trembling, "I'll come in.


  1. Several literary devices are present in the passage. The Joneses’ house, a mansion, is white, a color motif associated with wealth that is introduced at the beginning of the story. The mansion is personified as being “somnolent,” which means sleepy or drowsy; the personification suggests silence in the scene. Also, the house is “drenched” with “damp moonlight,” which is an example of synesthesia, a literary device that describes something by associating one physical sense with another; the house is described by associating the sight of moonlight with the tactile feeling of dampness. Finally, “gorgeous” and “splendor” have connotations of great beauty and magnificence, qualities Dexter has always associated with great wealth.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  2. An “indiscretion” is an act that displays poor judgment or foolish behavior.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  3. “Camaraderie” is a feeling of warmth and friendship.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  4. “Profane” means to treat something with irreverence or disrespect, especially something sacred. In the context of the passage, it suggests the depth of Dexter’s feelings about being with Judy again.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  5. The description of the city’s downtown area with pool halls and saloons filled with “dirty yellow light” contrasts with the world Dexter has inhabited while pursuing Judy Jones: Sherry Island, Mortimer Jones’s mansion, and the University Club. The contrast echoes the description of class differences introduced at the story’s beginning and emphasizes the affluence of the upper class.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  6. A coupé is a two-door car with a fixed roof.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  7. The passage further develops the color motif in the story. Here Judy is associated with gold, as she previously has been associated with pink. She not only wears a gold dress, but she is also dressed in gold from head to toe. A precious metal, gold gleams and glitters in the light and has connotations of riches, extravagance, and rare beauty—qualities attributed to Judy through the motif. Describing Judy as an “enameled doll” objectifies her, suggesting that to Dexter she has always been a prize to possess.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  8. Dexter’s memories of Judy and his desire for her prevail, as his emotions overrule reason and rational thinking. The “thing” that “was deep in him” is his continuing romantic illusion about Judy and what she represents to him.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  9. The life Dexter imagines having with Irene is described with a series of images that suggest a quiet domestic existence of home and family and his absence of passion for her.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  10. The passage contrasts Dexter’s relationship with Judy with his new relationship with Irene; he had given up moments of intense happiness with Judy in exchange for a sense of contentment with Irene.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  11. The adjective “priggish” describes a person who insists on adhering to social norms and expectations, especially in a self-righteous or arrogant way. Dexter’s perception of himself as a “young and already fabulously successful” man manifests in a belief that he should acquire more knowledge about literature and music; it also indicates Dexter is still remaking himself into the person he has longed to become.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  12. The verb “to enumerate” means to list, itemize, or mention a number of things one by one. In trying to accept that he has no future with Judy, Dexter makes a mental list of each reason she would not be a good wife for him.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  13. Fitzgerald’s develops the character of Irene Scheerer as a literary foil for Judy Jones. A foil in literature is a character whose traits emphasize the opposite traits in another character. Irene’s traits are opposite of Judy’s. Instead of being slender like Judy, she is “a little stout,” suggesting she is not as attractive as Judy. Irene is “sweet and honorable,” traits that emphasize Judy’s selfishness, deception, and dishonorable conduct. Irene’s ending her relationships with her two suitors “pleasantly” suggests that she treated them with respect, unlike Judy who humiliates her suitors before dropping them without notice or explanation.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  14. The conflict between romantic illusion and reality is a major theme in the story. Dexter’s youthful illusions about the elite upper class and his associating it with grace, style, beauty, glamour, and excitement have faded with his exposure to it through his relationship with Judy once he had become a financial success. However, he fails to see that Judy’s desirability is also an illusion, just as his winter dreams had been romantic rather than realistic.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  15. “Integral” is an adjective defined as basic or fundamental. A stag line refers to men at a dance who attend unaccompanied by a date; they would dance with unaccompanied women or cut in on couples to dance with someone else’s date.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  16. Dexter’s intense romance with Judy creates in him the joy of being engaged to marry her, but he recognizes the reality that she has made no commitment to him.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  17. An alcove is a recess or nook in a garden; an arbor is a shady garden alcove with sides and a roof formed by climbing plants trained over a trellis, a wooden framework. Dexter initially pursues Judy in the romantic setting of the garden at her home.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  18. As the word is used here, “kinetic” pertains to motion or movement, suggesting that nothing a suitor might do or say would win Judy’s love or commitment.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  19. A roadster is an open-top car, usually with a sporty design, that seats two. Judy’s owning a car and driving herself to social engagements indicates her independence and lack of concern with social conventions of her era, as does abandoning her date and leaving with another man.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  20. The noun “denouement,” or “dénouement,” is a literary term referring to the outcome of a dramatic sequence of events in a story. Fitzgerald’s word choice indicates that the courtship between Dexter and Judy Jones is like a complicated plot, “with varying shades of intensity,” that reached a climactic peak and then concluded.

    — Owl Eyes Editors