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|The Lees Of Happiness||F. Scott Fitzgerald|
|Page 1 of 3||
A week later Harry appeared at Marlowe, arrived unexpectedly at five o'clock, and coming up the walk sank into a porch chair in a state of exhaustion. Roxanne herself had had a busy day and was worn out. The doctors were coming at five-thirty, bringing a celebrated nerve specialist from New York. She was excited and thoroughly depressed, but Harry's eyes made her sit down beside him.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing, Roxanne," he denied. "I came to see how Jeff was doing. Don't you bother about me."
"Harry," insisted Roxanne, "there's something the matter."
"Nothing," he repeated. "How's Jeff?"
Anxiety darkened her face.
"He's a little worse, Harry. Doctor Jewett has come on from New York. They thought he could tell me something definite. He's going to try and find whether this paralysis has anything to do with the original blood clot."
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said jerkily. "I didn't know you expected a consultation. I wouldn't have come. I thought I'd just rock on your porch for an hour--"
"Sit down," she commanded.
"Sit down, Harry, dear boy." Her kindness flooded out now--enveloped him. "I know there's something the matter. You're white as a sheet. I'm going to get you a cool bottle of beer."
All at once he collapsed into his chair and covered his face with his hands.
"I can't make her happy," he said slowly. "I've tried and I've tried. This morning we had some words about breakfast--I'd been getting my breakfast down town--and--well, just after I went to the office she left the house, went East to her mother's with George and a suitcase full of lace underwear."
"And I don't know---"
There was a crunch on the gravel, a car turning into the drive. Roxanne uttered a little cry.
"It's Doctor Jewett."
"You'll wait, won't you?" she interrupted abstractedly. He saw that his problem had already died on the troubled surface of her mind.
There was an embarrassing minute of vague, elided introductions and then Harry followed the party inside and watched them disappear up the stairs. He went into the library and sat down on the big sofa.
For an hour he watched the sun creep up the patterned folds of the chintz curtains. In the deep quiet a trapped wasp buzzing on the inside of the window pane assumed the proportions of a clamor. From time to time another buzzing drifted down from up-stairs, resembling several more larger wasps caught on larger window-panes. He heard low footfalls, the clink of bottles, the clamor of pouring water.
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|The Lees Of Happiness
F. Scott Fitzgerald
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