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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

on evil as evil, whether it's clothed in filth or monotony or 

magnificence." 

 

"God! Haven't we raked the universe over the coals for four years?" 

 

Then the night came that was to be the last. Tom and Amory, bound in the 

morning for different training-camps, paced the shadowy walks as usual 

and seemed still to see around them the faces of the men they knew. 

 

"The grass is full of ghosts to-night." 

 

"The whole campus is alive with them." 

 

They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver of the 

slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees. 

 

"You know," whispered Tom, "what we feel now is the sense of all the 

gorgeous youth that has rioted through here in two hundred years." 

 

A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch--broken voices for 

some long parting. 

 

"And what we leave here is more than this class; it's the whole heritage 

of youth. We're just one generation--we're breaking all the links that 

seemed to bind us here to top-booted and high-stocked generations. We've 

walked arm and arm with Burr and Light-Horse Harry Lee through half 

these deep-blue nights." 

 

"That's what they are," Tom tangented off, "deep blue--a bit of color 

would spoil them, make them exotic. Spires, against a sky that's 

a promise of dawn, and blue light on the slate roofs--it hurts... 

rather--" 

 

"Good-by, Aaron Burr," Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall, "you 

and I knew strange corners of life." 

 

His voice echoed in the stillness. 

 

"The torches are out," whispered Tom. "Ah, Messalina, the long shadows 

are building minarets on the stadium--" 

 

For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and then 

they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes. 

 

"Damn!" 

 

"Damn!" 

 

The last light fades and drifts across the land--the low, long land, the 

sunny land of spires; the ghosts of evening tune again their lyres and 

wander singing in a plaintive band down the long corridors of trees; 

pale fires echo the night from tower top to tower: Oh, sleep that 

dreams, and dream that never tires, press from the petals of the lotus 


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