You must be old enough to vote, by now."
"I will, this fall," she replied. "Come on in; you're the first one
here. Daddy hasn't gotten back from town yet. He called and said he'd
be delayed till about nine." In the hall she took his hat and coat and
guided him toward the parlor on the right.
"Oh, Mother!" she called. "Here's Colonel Rand!"
Rand remembered Irene Gresham, too; an over-age dizzy blonde who was
still living in the Flaming Youth era of the twenties. She was an
extremely good egg; he liked her very much. After all, insisting upon
remaining an F. Scott Fitzgerald character was a harmless and amusing
foible, and it was no more than right that somebody should try to keep
the bright banner of Jazz Age innocence flying in a grim and sullen
world. He accepted a cigarette, shared the flame of his lighter with
mother and daughter, and submitted to being gushed over.
"... and, honestly, Jeff, you get handsomer every year," Irene Gresham
rattled on. "Dot, doesn't he look just like Clark Gable in _Gone with the
Wind_? But then, of course, Jeff really _is_ a Southerner, so ..."
The doorbell interrupted this slight _non sequitur_. She broke off,
rising.
"Sit still, Jeff; I'm just going to see who it is.
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