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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

what morsels of Shakespeare and Milton had been recently forced upon 

him. 

 

Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book for a 

moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily: 

 

"Ha! Great stuff!" 

 

The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial 

embarrassment. 

 

"Are you referring to your bacon buns?" His cracked, kindly voice 

went well with the large spectacles and the impression of a voluminous 

keenness that he gave. 

 

"No," Amory answered. "I was referring to Bernard Shaw." He turned the 

book around in explanation. 

 

"I've never read any Shaw. I've always meant to." The boy paused and 

then continued: "Did you ever read Stephen Phillips, or do you like 

poetry?" 

 

"Yes, indeed," Amory affirmed eagerly. "I've never read much of 

Phillips, though." (He had never heard of any Phillips except the late 

David Graham.) 

 

"It's pretty fair, I think. Of course he's a Victorian." They sallied 

into a discussion of poetry, in the course of which they introduced 

themselves, and Amory's companion proved to be none other than "that 

awful highbrow, Thomas Parke D'Invilliers," who signed the passionate 

love-poems in the Lit. He was, perhaps, nineteen, with stooped 

shoulders, pale blue eyes, and, as Amory could tell from his general 

appearance, without much conception of social competition and such 

phenomena of absorbing interest. Still, he liked books, and it seemed 

forever since Amory had met any one who did; if only that St. Paul's 

crowd at the next table would not mistake _him_ for a bird, too, he 

would enjoy the encounter tremendously. They didn't seem to be noticing, 

so he let himself go, discussed books by the dozens--books he had read, 

read about, books he had never heard of, rattling off lists of titles 

with the facility of a Brentano's clerk. D'Invilliers was partially 

taken in and wholly delighted. In a good-natured way he had almost 

decided that Princeton was one part deadly Philistines and one part 

deadly grinds, and to find a person who could mention Keats without 


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