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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

glare. She was a witch, of perhaps nineteen, he judged, alert and dreamy 

and with the tell-tale white line over her upper lip that was a weakness 

and a delight. He sank back with a gasp against the wall of hay. 

 

"Now you've seen me," she said calmly, "and I suppose you're about to 

say that my green eyes are burning into your brain." 

 

"What color is your hair?" he asked intently. "It's bobbed, isn't it?" 

 

"Yes, it's bobbed. I don't know what color it is," she answered, musing, 

"so many men have asked me. It's medium, I suppose--No one ever looks 

long at my hair. I've got beautiful eyes, though, haven't I. I don't 

care what you say, I have beautiful eyes." 

 

"Answer my question, Madeline." 

 

"Don't remember them all--besides my name isn't Madeline, it's Eleanor." 

 

"I might have guessed it. You _look_ like Eleanor--you have that Eleanor 

look. You know what I mean." 

 

There was a silence as they listened to the rain. 

 

"It's going down my neck, fellow lunatic," she offered finally. 

 

"Answer my questions." 

 

"Well--name of Savage, Eleanor; live in big old house mile down road; 

nearest living relation to be notified, grandfather--Ramilly Savage; 

height, five feet four inches; number on watch-case, 3077 W; nose, 

delicate aquiline; temperament, uncanny--" 

 

"And me," Amory interrupted, "where did you see me?" 

 

"Oh, you're one of _those_ men," she answered haughtily, "must lug 

old self into conversation. Well, my boy, I was behind a hedge sunning 

myself one day last week, and along comes a man saying in a pleasant, 

conceited way of talking: 

 

 

"'And now when the night was senescent' 

(says he) 

'And the star dials pointed to morn 

At the end of the path a liquescent' 

(says he) 

'And nebulous lustre was born.' 

 

"So I poked my eyes up over the hedge, but you had started to run, for 

some unknown reason, and so I saw but the back of your beautiful head. 

'Oh!' says I, 'there's a man for whom many of us might sigh,' and I 

continued in my best Irish--" 


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