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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

the edge of the cliff she gave a sudden shriek and flung herself 

sideways--plunged from her horse and, rolling over twice, landed in 

a pile of brush five feet from the edge. The horse went over with a 

frantic whinny. In a minute he was by Eleanor's side and saw that her 

eyes were open. 

 

"Eleanor!" he cried. 

 

She did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with sudden 

tears. 

 

"Eleanor, are you hurt?" 

 

"No; I don't think so," she said faintly, and then began weeping. 

 

"My horse dead?" 

 

"Good God--Yes!" 

 

"Oh!" she wailed. "I thought I was going over. I didn't know--" 

 

He helped her gently to her feet and boosted her onto his saddle. So 

they started homeward; Amory walking and she bent forward on the pommel, 

sobbing bitterly. 

 

"I've got a crazy streak," she faltered, "twice before I've done things 

like that. When I was eleven mother went--went mad--stark raving crazy. 

We were in Vienna--" 

 

All the way back she talked haltingly about herself, and Amory's love 

waned slowly with the moon. At her door they started from habit to kiss 

good night, but she could not run into his arms, nor were they stretched 

to meet her as in the week before. For a minute they stood there, hating 

each other with a bitter sadness. But as Amory had loved himself in 

Eleanor, so now what he hated was only a mirror. Their poses were strewn 

about the pale dawn like broken glass. The stars were long gone and 

there were left only the little sighing gusts of wind and the silences 

between... but naked souls are poor things ever, and soon he turned 

homeward and let new lights come in with the sun. 

 

***** 

 

A POEM THAT ELEANOR SENT AMORY SEVERAL YEARS LATER 

 

 

"Here, Earth-born, over the lilt of the water, 

Lisping its music and bearing a burden of light, 

Bosoming day as a laughing and radiant daughter... 

Here we may whisper unheard, unafraid of the night. 

Walking alone... was it splendor, or what, we were bound with, 

Deep in the time when summer lets down her hair? 


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