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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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The
Knickerbocker
Bar
,
beamed
upon
by
Maxfield
Parrish
's
jovial
,
colorful
"
Old
King
Cole
,
"
was
well
crowded
.
Amory
stopped
in
the
entrance
and
looked
at
his
wrist-watch
;
he
wanted
particularly
to
know
the
time
,
for
something
in
his
mind
that
catalogued
and
classified
liked
to
chip
things
off
cleanly
.
Later
it
would
satisfy
him
in
a
vague
way
to
be
able
to
think
"
that
thing
ended
at
exactly
twenty
minutes
after
eight
on
Thursday
,
June
10
,
1919
.
"
This
was
allowing
for
the
walk
from
her
house
--
a
walk
concerning
which
he
had
afterward
not
the
faintest
recollection
.
He
was
in
rather
grotesque
condition
:
two
days
of
worry
and
nervousness
,
of
sleepless
nights
,
of
untouched
meals
,
culminating
in
the
emotional
crisis
and
Rosalind
's
abrupt
decision
--
the
strain
of
it
had
drugged
the
foreground
of
his
mind
into
a
merciful
coma
.
As
he
fumbled
clumsily
with
the
olives
at
the
free-lunch
table
,
a
man
approached
and
spoke
to
him
,
and
the
olives
dropped
from
his
nervous
hands
.
"
Well
,
Amory
...
"
It
was
some
one
he
had
known
at
Princeton
;
he
had
no
idea
of
the
name
.
"
Hello
,
old
boy
--
"
he
heard
himself
saying
.
"
Name
's
Jim
Wilson
--
you
've
forgotten
.
"
"
Sure
,
you
bet
,
Jim
.
I
remember
.
"
"
Going
to
reunion
?
"
"
You
know
!
"
Simultaneously
he
realized
that
he
was
not
going
to
reunion
.
"
Get
overseas
?
"
