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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

anything you wanted?" 

 

Amory flushed. He _had_ told her a lot of things. 

 

"Yes." 

 

"Well, you didn't seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe you're 

just plain conceited." 

 

"No, I'm not," he hesitated. "At Princeton--" 

 

"Oh, you and Princeton! You'd think that was the world, the way you 

talk! Perhaps you _can_ write better than anybody else on your old 

Princetonian; maybe the freshmen _do_ think you're important--" 

 

"You don't understand--" 

 

"Yes, I do," she interrupted. "I _do_, because you're always talking 

about yourself and I used to like it; now I don't." 

 

"Have I to-night?" 

 

"That's just the point," insisted Isabelle. "You got all upset to-night. 

You just sat and watched my eyes. Besides, I have to think all the time 

I'm talking to you--you're so critical." 

 

"I make you think, do I?" Amory repeated with a touch of vanity. 

 

"You're a nervous strain"--this emphatically--"and when you analyze 

every little emotion and instinct I just don't have 'em." 

 

"I know." Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly. 

 

"Let's go." She stood up. 

 

He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. 

 

"What train can I get?" 

 

"There's one about 9:11 if you really must go." 

 

"Yes, I've got to go, really. Good night." 

 

"Good night." 

 

They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his room 

he thought he caught just the faintest cloud of discontent in her face. 

He lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much he cared--how much 

of his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity--whether he was, after all, 

temperamentally unfitted for romance. 

 

When he awoke, it was with a glad flood of consciousness. The early wind 

stirred the chintz curtains at the windows and he was idly puzzled not 

to be in his room at Princeton with his school football picture over 

the bureau and the Triangle Club on the wall opposite. Then the 

grandfather's clock in the hall outside struck eight, and the memory 

of the night before came to him. He was out of bed, dressing, like the 

wind; he must get out of the house before he saw Isabelle. What had 


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