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Table of contents
AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE
SPIRES AND GARGOYLES
THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS
NARCISSUS OFF DUTY
THE DEBUTANTE
EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE
YOUNG IRONY
THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE
THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE

bobbing party. He must act quickly. He reached over with a violent, 

jerky effort, and clutched Myra's hand--her thumb, to be exact. 

 

"Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whispered. "I wanta talk 

to you--I _got_ to talk to you." 

 

Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant vision of her mother, and 

then--alas for convention--glanced into the eyes beside. "Turn down this 

side street, Richard, and drive straight to the Minnehaha Club!" she 

cried through the speaking tube. Amory sank back against the cushions 

with a sigh of relief. 

 

"I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll _bet_ I can!" 

 

Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty, and the night around 

was chill and vibrant with rich tension. From the Country Club steps the 

roads stretched away, dark creases on the white blanket; huge heaps of 

snow lining the sides like the tracks of giant moles. They lingered for 

a moment on the steps, and watched the white holiday moon. 

 

"Pale moons like that one"--Amory made a vague gesture--"make people 

mysterieuse. You look like a young witch with her cap off and her hair 

sorta mussed"--her hands clutched at her hair--"Oh, leave it, it looks 

_good_." 

 

They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into the little den of 

his dreams, where a cosy fire was burning before a big sink-down couch. 

A few years later this was to be a great stage for Amory, a cradle for 

many an emotional crisis. Now they talked for a moment about bobbing 

parties. 

 

"There's always a bunch of shy fellas," he commented, "sitting at the 

tail of the bob, sorta lurkin' an' whisperin' an' pushin' each other 

off. Then there's always some crazy cross-eyed girl"--he gave a 

terrifying imitation--"she's always talkin' _hard_, sorta, to the 

chaperon." 

 

"You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra. 

 

"How d'y' mean?" Amory gave immediate attention, on his own ground at 

last. 

 

"Oh--always talking about crazy things. Why don't you come ski-ing with 

Marylyn and I to-morrow?" 

 

"I don't like girls in the daytime," he said shortly, and then, thinking 


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