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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

before." 

 

"What else?" 

 

"Well, the idea that men can stand anything if they get used to it, and 

the fact that I got a high mark in the psychological examination." 

 

Mrs. Lawrence laughed. Amory was finding it a great relief to be in this 

cool house on Riverside Drive, away from more condensed New York and 

the sense of people expelling great quantities of breath into a 

little space. Mrs. Lawrence reminded him vaguely of Beatrice, not 

in temperament, but in her perfect grace and dignity. The house, its 

furnishings, the manner in which dinner was served, were in immense 

contrast to what he had met in the great places on Long Island, where 

the servants were so obtrusive that they had positively to be bumped 

out of the way, or even in the houses of more conservative "Union Club" 

families. He wondered if this air of symmetrical restraint, this grace, 

which he felt was continental, was distilled through Mrs. Lawrence's New 

England ancestry or acquired in long residence in Italy and Spain. 

 

Two glasses of sauterne at luncheon loosened his tongue, and he talked, 

with what he felt was something of his old charm, of religion and 

literature and the menacing phenomena of the social order. Mrs. Lawrence 

was ostensibly pleased with him, and her interest was especially in his 

mind; he wanted people to like his mind again--after a while it might be 

such a nice place in which to live. 

 

"Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you're his reincarnation, that your 

faith will eventually clarify." 

 

"Perhaps," he assented. "I'm rather pagan at present. It's just that 

religion doesn't seem to have the slightest bearing on life at my age." 

 

When he left her house he walked down Riverside Drive with a feeling 

of satisfaction. It was amusing to discuss again such subjects as this 

young poet, Stephen Vincent Benet, or the Irish Republic. Between 

the rancid accusations of Edward Carson and Justice Cohalan he had 

completely tired of the Irish question; yet there had been a time when 

his own Celtic traits were pillars of his personal philosophy. 

 

There seemed suddenly to be much left in life, if only this revival 


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