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roof-gardens, to meet a girl who should look like that--better, that
very girl; whose hair would be drenched with golden moonlight, while at
his elbow sparkling wine was poured by an unintelligible waiter. When
the curtain fell for the last time he gave such a long sigh that the
people in front of him twisted around and stared and said loud enough
for him to hear:
"What a _remarkable_-looking boy!"
This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem
handsome to the population of New York.
Paskert and he walked in silence toward their hotel. The former was
the first to speak. His uncertain fifteen-year-old voice broke in in a
melancholy strain on Amory's musings:
"I'd marry that girl to-night."
There was no need to ask what girl he referred to.
"I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people,"
Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of
Paskert. It sounded so mature.
"I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?"
"No, _sir_, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth with emphasis,
"and I know that girl's as good as gold. I can tell."
They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the music
that eddied out of the cafes. New faces flashed on and off like
myriad lights, pale or rouged faces, tired, yet sustained by a weary
excitement. Amory watched them in fascination. He was planning his life.
He was going to live in New York, and be known at every restaurant and
cafe, wearing a dress-suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping
away the dull hours of the forenoon.
"Yes, _sir_, I'd marry that girl to-night!"
HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE
October of his second and last year at St. Regis' was a high point in
Amory's memory. The game with Groton was played from three of a snappy,
exhilarating afternoon far into the crisp autumnal twilight, and Amory
at quarter-back, exhorting in wild despair, making impossible tackles,
calling signals in a voice that had diminished to a hoarse, furious
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