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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

door five minutes after lights. 

 

"Sure." 

 

"I'm coming in." 

 

"Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don't you." 

 

Amory sat up in bed and lit a cigarette while Rahill settled for a 

conversation. Rahill's favorite subject was the respective futures of 

the sixth form, and Amory never tired of outlining them for his benefit. 

 

"Ted Converse? 'At's easy. He'll fail his exams, tutor all summer at 

Harstrum's, get into Sheff with about four conditions, and flunk out in 

the middle of the freshman year. Then he'll go back West and raise hell 

for a year or so; finally his father will make him go into the paint 

business. He'll marry and have four sons, all bone heads. He'll always 

think St. Regis's spoiled him, so he'll send his sons to day school in 

Portland. He'll die of locomotor ataxia when he's forty-one, and 

his wife will give a baptizing stand or whatever you call it to the 

Presbyterian Church, with his name on it--" 

 

"Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How about yourself?" 

 

"I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're philosophers." 

 

"I'm not." 

 

"Sure you are. You've got a darn good head on you." But Amory knew that 

nothing in the abstract, no theory or generality, ever moved Rahill 

until he stubbed his toe upon the concrete minutiae of it. 

 

"Haven't," insisted Rahill. "I let people impose on me here and don't 

get anything out of it. I'm the prey of my friends, damn it--do their 

lessons, get 'em out of trouble, pay 'em stupid summer visits, and 

always entertain their kid sisters; keep my temper when they get selfish 

and then they think they pay me back by voting for me and telling me I'm 

the 'big man' of St. Regis's. I want to get where everybody does their 

own work and I can tell people where to go. I'm tired of being nice to 

every poor fish in school." 

 

"You're not a slicker," said Amory suddenly. 

 

"A what?" 

 

"A slicker." 

 

"What the devil's that?" 

 

"Well, it's something that--that--there's a lot of them. You're not one, 

and neither am I, though I am more than you are." 


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