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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

the way, we're going to ride up Harper's Hill. I think that comes in our 

programme about five o'clock." 

 

"You little devil," Amory growled. "You're going to make me stay up all 

night and sleep in the train like an immigrant all day to-morrow, going 

back to New York." 

 

"Hush! some one's coming along the road--let's go! Whoo-ee-oop!" And 

with a shout that probably gave the belated traveller a series of 

shivers, she turned her horse into the woods and Amory followed slowly, 

as he had followed her all day for three weeks. 

 

The summer was over, but he had spent the days in watching Eleanor, a 

graceful, facile Manfred, build herself intellectual and imaginative 

pyramids while she revelled in the artificialities of the temperamental 

teens and they wrote poetry at the dinner-table. 

 

 

When Vanity kissed Vanity, a hundred happy Junes ago, he 

pondered o'er her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever 

know, he rhymed her eyes with life and death: 

 

"Thru Time I'll save my love!" he said... yet Beauty 

vanished with his breath, and, with her lovers, she was dead... 

 

--Ever his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair: 

 

"Who'd learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his 

sonnet there"... So all my words, however true, might sing 

you to a thousandth June, and no one ever _know_ that you were 

Beauty for an afternoon. 

 

 

So he wrote one day, when he pondered how coldly we thought of the "Dark 

Lady of the Sonnets," and how little we remembered her as the great man 

wanted her remembered. For what Shakespeare _must_ have desired, to have 

been able to write with such divine despair, was that the lady should 

live... and now we have no real interest in her.... The irony of it is 

that if he had cared _more_ for the poem than for the lady the sonnet 

would be only obvious, imitative rhetoric and no one would ever have 

read it after twenty years.... 

 

This was the last night Amory ever saw Eleanor. He was leaving in the 

morning and they had agreed to take a long farewell trot by the cold 

moonlight. She wanted to talk, she said--perhaps the last time in her 


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