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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

"You're all fine now, and I feel glorious. Give me a cigarette. You've 

never seen me smoke, have you? Well, I do, about once a month." 

 

And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the corner like two mad 

children gone wild with pale-blue twilight. 

 

"I'm going to the country for to-morrow," she announced, as she stood 

panting, safe beyond the flare of the corner lamp-post. "These days are 

too magnificent to miss, though perhaps I feel them more in the city." 

 

"Oh, Clara!" Amory said; "what a devil you could have been if the Lord 

had just bent your soul a little the other way!" 

 

"Maybe," she answered; "but I think not. I'm never really wild and never 

have been. That little outburst was pure spring." 

 

"And you are, too," said he. 

 

They were walking along now. 

 

"No--you're wrong again, how can a person of your own self-reputed 

brains be so constantly wrong about me? I'm the opposite of everything 

spring ever stood for. It's unfortunate, if I happen to look like what 

pleased some soppy old Greek sculptor, but I assure you that if it 

weren't for my face I'd be a quiet nun in the convent without"--then 

she broke into a run and her raised voice floated back to him as he 

followed--"my precious babies, which I must go back and see." 

 

She was the only girl he ever knew with whom he could understand how 

another man might be preferred. Often Amory met wives whom he had known 

as debutantes, and looking intently at them imagined that he found 

something in their faces which said: 

 

"Oh, if I could only have gotten _you!_" Oh, the enormous conceit of the 

man! 

 

But that night seemed a night of stars and singing and Clara's bright 

soul still gleamed on the ways they had trod. 

 

"Golden, golden is the air--" he chanted to the little pools of water. 

... "Golden is the air, golden notes from golden mandolins, golden 

frets of golden violins, fair, oh, wearily fair.... Skeins from braided 

basket, mortals may not hold; oh, what young extravagant God, who would 

know or ask it?... who could give such gold..." 

 

***** 

 

AMORY IS RESENTFUL 


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