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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

says that if you showed up by five-thirty you two was to go after 'em in 

the Packard." 

 

Amory's despair was crystallized by the appearance of Myra herself, 

bundled to the ears in a polo coat, her face plainly sulky, her voice 

pleasant only with difficulty. 

 

"'Lo, Amory." 

 

"'Lo, Myra." He had described the state of his vitality. 

 

"Well--you _got_ here, _any_ways." 

 

"Well--I'll tell you. I guess you don't know about the auto accident," 

he romanced. 

 

Myra's eyes opened wide. 

 

"Who was it to?" 

 

"Well," he continued desperately, "uncle 'n aunt 'n I." 

 

"Was any one _killed?_" 

 

Amory paused and then nodded. 

 

"Your uncle?"--alarm. 

 

"Oh, no just a horse--a sorta gray horse." 

 

At this point the Erse butler snickered. 

 

"Probably killed the engine," he suggested. Amory would have put him on 

the rack without a scruple. 

 

"We'll go now," said Myra coolly. "You see, Amory, the bobs were ordered 

for five and everybody was here, so we couldn't wait--" 

 

"Well, I couldn't help it, could I?" 

 

"So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll catch the bobs 

before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory." 

 

Amory's shredded poise dropped from him. He pictured the happy party 

jingling along snowy streets, the appearance of the limousine, the 

horrible public descent of him and Myra before sixty reproachful eyes, 

his apology--a real one this time. He sighed aloud. 

 

"What?" inquired Myra. 

 

"Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ catch up with 'em 

before they get there?" He was encouraging a faint hope that they might 

slip into the Minnehaha Club and meet the others there, be found in 

blasť seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude. 

 

"Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right--let's hurry." 

 

He became conscious of his stomach. As they stepped into the machine he 

hurriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy over a rather box-like plan 

he had conceived. It was based upon some "trade-lasts" gleaned at 

dancing-school, to the effect that he was "awful good-looking and 

_English_, sort of." 


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