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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

 

***** 

 

KISMET 

 

Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply and passionately in 

love. The critical qualities which had spoiled for each of them a dozen 

romances were dulled by the great wave of emotion that washed over them. 

 

"It may be an insane love-affair," she told her anxious mother, "but 

it's not inane." 

 

The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency early in March, where 

he alternated between astonishing bursts of rather exceptional work and 

wild dreams of becoming suddenly rich and touring Italy with Rosalind. 

 

They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly every 

evening--always in a sort of breathless hush, as if they feared that any 

minute the spell would break and drop them out of this paradise of rose 

and flame. But the spell became a trance, seemed to increase from day 

to day; they began to talk of marrying in July--in June. All life was 

transmitted into terms of their love, all experience, all desires, all 

ambitions, were nullified--their senses of humor crawled into corners to 

sleep; their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely 

regretted juvenalia. 

 

For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement 

and was hurrying into line with his generation. 

 

***** 

 

A LITTLE INTERLUDE 

 

Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as 

inevitably his--the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim streets 

... it seemed that he had closed the book of fading harmonies at last 

and stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Everywhere these 

countless lights, this promise of a night of streets and singing--he 

moved in a half-dream through the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind 

hurrying toward him with eager feet from every corner.... How the 

unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, 

a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be 

more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even 

his dreams now were faint violins drifting like summer sounds upon the 


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