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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

 

Often they swam and as Amory floated lazily in the water he shut his 

mind to all thoughts except those of hazy soap-bubble lands where the 

sun splattered through wind-drunk trees. How could any one possibly 

think or worry, or do anything except splash and dive and loll there 

on the edge of time while the flower months failed. Let the days move 

over--sadness and memory and pain recurred outside, and here, once more, 

before he went on to meet them he wanted to drift and be young. 

 

There were days when Amory resented that life had changed from an even 

progress along a road stretching ever in sight, with the scenery merging 

and blending, into a succession of quick, unrelated scenes--two years of 

sweat and blood, that sudden absurd instinct for paternity that Rosalind 

had stirred; the half-sensual, half-neurotic quality of this autumn with 

Eleanor. He felt that it would take all time, more than he could ever 

spare, to glue these strange cumbersome pictures into the scrap-book of 

his life. It was all like a banquet where he sat for this half-hour of 

his youth and tried to enjoy brilliant epicurean courses. 

 

Dimly he promised himself a time where all should be welded together. 

For months it seemed that he had alternated between being borne along a 

stream of love or fascination, or left in an eddy, and in the eddies 

he had not desired to think, rather to be picked up on a wave's top and 

swept along again. 

 

"The despairing, dying autumn and our love--how well they harmonize!" 

said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by the water. 

 

"The Indian summer of our hearts--" he ceased. 

 

"Tell me," she said finally, "was she light or dark?" 

 

"Light." 

 

"Was she more beautiful than I am?" 

 

"I don't know," said Amory shortly. 

 

One night they walked while the moon rose and poured a great burden of 

glory over the garden until it seemed fairyland with Amory and Eleanor, 

dim phantasmal shapes, expressing eternal beauty in curious elfin love 

moods. Then they turned out of the moonlight into the trellised darkness 

of a vine-hung pagoda, where there were scents so plaintive as to be 


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