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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

Forty-third Street and strolled to the Biltmore bar. 

 

"Hi, Amory!" 

 

"What'll you have?" 

 

"Yo-ho! Waiter!" 

 

***** 

 

TEMPERATURE NORMAL 

 

The advent of prohibition with the "thirsty-first" put a sudden stop to 

the submerging of Amory's sorrows, and when he awoke one morning to find 

that the old bar-to-bar days were over, he had neither remorse for the 

past three weeks nor regret that their repetition was impossible. He had 

taken the most violent, if the weakest, method to shield himself 

from the stabs of memory, and while it was not a course he would 

have prescribed for others, he found in the end that it had done its 

business: he was over the first flush of pain. 

 

Don't misunderstand! Amory had loved Rosalind as he would never love 

another living person. She had taken the first flush of his youth and 

brought from his unplumbed depths tenderness that had surprised 

him, gentleness and unselfishness that he had never given to another 

creature. He had later love-affairs, but of a different sort: in those 

he went back to that, perhaps, more typical frame of mind, in which the 

girl became the mirror of a mood in him. Rosalind had drawn out what was 

more than passionate admiration; he had a deep, undying affection for 

Rosalind. 

 

But there had been, near the end, so much dramatic tragedy, culminating 

in the arabesque nightmare of his three weeks' spree, that he was 

emotionally worn out. The people and surroundings that he remembered as 

being cool or delicately artificial, seemed to promise him a refuge. He 

wrote a cynical story which featured his father's funeral and despatched 

it to a magazine, receiving in return a check for sixty dollars and a 

request for more of the same tone. This tickled his vanity, but inspired 

him to no further effort. 

 

He read enormously. He was puzzled and depressed by "A Portrait of the 

Artist as a Young Man"; intensely interested by "Joan and Peter" and 

"The Undying Fire," and rather surprised by his discovery through a 

critic named Mencken of several excellent American novels: "Vandover 


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