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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

 

"Easter!" She turned up her nose. "Huh! Spring in corsets!" 

 

"Easter _would_ bore spring, wouldn't she? Easter has her hair braided, 

wears a tailored suit." 

 

 

"Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet. 

Over the splendor and speed of thy feet--" 

 

 

quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: "I suppose Hallowe'en is a better 

day for autumn than Thanksgiving." 

 

"Much better--and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but 

summer..." 

 

"Summer has no day," she said. "We can't possibly have a summer love. So 

many people have tried that the name's become proverbial. Summer is 

only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the 

warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It's a sad season of life without 

growth.... It has no day." 

 

"Fourth of July," Amory suggested facetiously. 

 

"Don't be funny!" she said, raking him with her eyes. 

 

"Well, what could fulfil the promise of spring?" 

 

She thought a moment. 

 

"Oh, I suppose heaven would, if there was one," she said finally, "a 

sort of pagan heaven--you ought to be a materialist," she continued 

irrelevantly. 

 

"Why?" 

 

"Because you look a good deal like the pictures of Rupert Brooke." 

 

To some extent Amory tried to play Rupert Brooke as long as he knew 

Eleanor. What he said, his attitude toward life, toward her, toward 

himself, were all reflexes of the dead Englishman's literary moods. 

Often she sat in the grass, a lazy wind playing with her short hair, 

her voice husky as she ran up and down the scale from Grantchester to 

Waikiki. There was something most passionate in Eleanor's reading aloud. 

They seemed nearer, not only mentally, but physically, when they read, 

than when she was in his arms, and this was often, for they fell half 

into love almost from the first. Yet was Amory capable of love now? 

He could, as always, run through the emotions in a half hour, but even 

while they revelled in their imaginations, he knew that neither of them 

could care as he had cared once before--I suppose that was why they 

turned to Brooke, and Swinburne, and Shelley. Their chance was to make 


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