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Presented to the 

LIBRARY of the 









. . . Well this side of Paradise! . . . 
There's little comfort in the wise. 

Rupert Brooke. 

Experience is the name so many people 
give to their mistakes. _ Oscaf 





Published April. 1920 
Reprinted twice in April, 1920 

Reprinted May. June, July, August, September, 1920 
October, 1920; February, 1921 

















AMORY ELAINE inherited from his mother every trait, 
except the stray inexpressible few, that made him worth 
while. His father, an ineffectual, inarticulate man with 
a taste for Byron and a habit of drowsing over the 
Encyclopedia, Britannica, grew wealthy at thirty through 
the death of two elder brothers, successful Chicago 
brokers, and in the first flush of feeling that the world 
was his, went to Bar Harbor and met Beatrice O'Hara. 
In consequence, Stephen Blaine handed down to pos- 
terity his height of just under six feet and his tendency 
to waver at crucial moments, these two abstractions 
appearing in his son Amory. For many years he hov- 
ered in the background of his family's life, an unasser- 
tive figure with a face half-obliterated by lifeless, silky 
hair, continually occupied in "taking care" of his wife, 
continually harassed by the idea that he didn't and 
couldn't understand her. 

But Beatrice Blaine! There was a woman! Early 
pictures taken on her father's estate at Lake Geneva, 
Wisconsin, or in Rome at the Sacred Heart Convent 
an educational extravagance that in her youth was only 
for the daughters of the exceptionally wealthy showed 
the exquisite delicacy of her features, the consummate 
art and simplicity of her clothes. A brilliant education 
she had her youth passed in renaissance glory, she 
was versed in the latest gossip of the Older Roman 
Families; known by name as a fabulously wealthy Amer- 



ican girl to Cardinal Vitori and Queen Margherita and 
more subtle celebrities that one must have had some 
culture even to have heard of. She learned in England 
to prefer whiskey and soda to wine, and her small talk 
was broadened in two senses during a winter in Vienna. 
All in all Beatrice O'Hara absorbed the sort of educa- 
tion that will be quite impossible ever again; a tutelage 
measured by the number of things and people one could 
be contemptuous of and charming about; a culture rich 
in all arts and traditions, barren of all ideas, in the last 
of those days when the great gardener clipped the in- 
ferior roses to produce one perfect bud. 

In her less important moments she returned to Amer- 
ica, met Stephen Elaine and married him this almost 
entirely because she was a little bit weary, a little bit 
sad. Her only child was carried through a tiresome 
season and brought into the world on a spring day in 

When Amory was five he was already a delightful 
companion for her. He was an auburn-haired boy, with 
great, handsome eyes which he would grow up to in 
time, a facile imaginative mind and a taste for fancy 
dress. From his fourth to his tenth year he did the 
country with his mother in her father's private car, from 
Coronado, where his mother became so bored that she 
had a nervous breakdown in a fashionable hotel, down 
to Mexico City, where she took a mild, almost epidemic 
consumption. This trouble pleased her, and later she 
made use of it as an intrinsic part of her atmosphere 
especially after several astounding bracers. 

So, while more or less fortunate little rich boys were 
defying governesses on the beach at Newport, or being 
spanked or tutored or read to from "Do and Dare," or 
"Frank on the Mississippi," Amory was biting acqui- 
escent bell-boys in the Waldorf, outgrowing a natural 


repugnance to chamber music and symphonies, and 
deriving a highly specialized education from his mother. 


"Yes, Beatrice." (Such a quaint name for his mother; 
she encouraged it.) 

"Dear, don't think of getting out of bed yet. I've 
always suspected that early rising in early life makes 
one nervous. Clothilde is having your breakfast brought 

"All right." 

"I am feeling very old to-day, Amory," she would 
sigh, her face a rare cameo of pathos, her voice exquis- 
itely modulated, her hands as facile as Bernhardt's. 
"My nerves are on edge on edge. We must leave this 
terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for sun- 

Amory's penetrating green eyes would look out 
through tangled hair at his mother. Even at this age 
he had no illusions about her. 


"Oh, yes." 

"I want you to take a red-hot bath as hot as you 
can bear it, and just relax your nerves. You can read 
in the tub if you wish." 

She fed him sections of the "Ftes Galantes" before 
he, was ten; at eleven he could talk glibly, if rather 
reminiscently, of Brahms and Mozart and Beethoven. 
One afternoon, when left alone in the hotel at Hot 
Springs, he sampled his mother's apricot cordial, and as 
the taste pleased him, he became quite tipsy. This was 
fun for a while, but he essayed a cigarette in his exalta- 
tion, and succumbed to a vulgar, plebeian reaction. 
Though this incident horrified Beatrice, it also secretly 
amused her and became part of what in a later genera- 
tion would have been termed her "line." 


"This son of mine," he heard her tell a room full of 
awe-struck, admiring women one day, "is entirely sophis- 
ticated and quite charming but delicate we're all 
delicate; here, you know." Her hand was radiantly 
outlined against her beautiful bosom; then sinking her 
voice to a whisper, she told them of the apricot cordiaL 
They rejoiced, for she was a brave raconteuse, but many 
were the keys turned in sideboard locks that night 
against the possible defection of little Bobby or Bar- 
bara. . . . 

These domestic pilgrimages were invariably in state; 
two maids, the private car, or Mr. Blaine when available, 
and very often a physician. When Amory had the 
whooping-cough four disgusted specialists glared at each 
other hunched around his bed; when he took scarlet 
fever the number of attendants, including physicians 
and nurses, totalled fourteen. However, blood being 
thicker than broth, he was pulled through. 

The Blaines were attached to no city. They were the 
Blaines of Lake Geneva; they had quite enough rela- 
tives to serve in place of friends, and an enviable stand- 
ing from Pasadena to Cape Cod. But Beatrice grew 
more and more prone to like only new acquaintances, as 
there were certain stories, such as the history of her 
constitution and its many amendments, memories of 
her years abroad, that it was necessary for her to repeat 
at regular intervals. Like Freudian dreams, they must 
be thrown off, else they would sweep in and lay siege 
to her nerves. But Beatrice was critical about American 
women, especially the floating population of ex- West- 

"They have accents, my dear," she told Amory, "not 
Southern accents or Boston accents, not an accent 
attached to any locality, just an accent" she became 
dreamy. "They pick up old, moth-eaten London ac- 

cents that are down on their luck and have to be used 
by some one. They talk as an English butler might 
after several years in a Chicago grand-opera company." 
She became almost incoherent "Suppose time in 
every Western woman's life she feels her husband is 
prosperous enough for her to have accent they try to 
impress me, my dear " 

Though she thought of her body as a mass of frailties, 
she considered her soul quite as ill, and therefore im- 
portant in her life. She had once been a Catholic, but 
discovering that priests were infinitely more attentive 
when she was in process of losing or regaining faith in 
Mother Church, she maintained an enchantingly waver- 
ing attitude. Often she deplored the bourgeois quality 
of the American Catholic clergy, and was quite sure 
that had she lived in the shadow of the great Continental 
cathedrals her soul would still be a thin flame on the 
mighty altar of Rome. Still, next to doctors, priests 
were her favorite sport. 

"Ah, Bishop Wiston," she would declare, "I do not 
want to talk of myself. I can imagine the stream of 
hysterical women fluttering at your doors, beseeching 
you to be sunpatico" then after an interlude filled by 
the clergyman "but my mood is oddly dissimilar." 

Only to bishops and above did she divulge her clerical 
romance. When she had first returned to her country 
there had been a pagan, Swinburnian young man in 
Ashville, for whose passionate kisses and unsentimental 
conversations she had taken a decided penchant they 
had discussed the matter pro and con with an intellec- 
tual romancing quite devoid of soppiness. Eventually 
she had decided to marry for background, and the 
young pagan from Asheville had gone through a spiritual 
crisis, joined the Catholic Church, and was now Mon- 
signor Darcy. 


"Indeed, Mrs. Elaine, he is still delightful company 
quite the cardinal's right-hand man." 

"Amory will go to him one day, I know," breathed 
the beautiful lady, "and Monsignor Darcy will under- 
stand him as he understood me." 

Amory became thirteen, rather tall and slender, and 
more than ever on to his Celtic mother. He had tutored 
occasionally the idea being that he was to "keep up," 
at each place "taking up the work where he left off," 
yet as no tutor ever found the place he left off, his mind 
was still in very good shape. What a few more years 
of this life would have made of him is problematical. 
However, four hours out from land, Italy bound, with 
Beatrice, his appendix burst, probably from too many 
meals in bed, and after a series of frantic telegrams to 
Europe and America, to the amazement of the passen- 
gers the great ship slowly wheeled around and returned 
to New York to deposit Amory at the pier. You will 
admit that if it was not life it was magnificent 

After the operation Beatrice had a nervous breakdown 
that bore a suspicious resemblance to delirium tremens, 
and Amory was left in Minneapolis, destined to spend 
the ensuing two years with his aunt and uncle. There 
the crude, vulgar air of Western civilization first catches 
him in his underwear, so to speak. 

His lip curled when he read it. 

"/ am going to have a bobbing party" it said, "on Thursday, 
December the seventeenth, at five o'clock, and I would like it very 
much if you could come. 

Yours truly, 
R.S.V.P. Myra St. Claire." 

He had been two months in Minneapolis, and his 
chief struggle had been the concealing from "the other 


guys at school" how particularly superior he felt him- 
self to be, yet this conviction was built upon shifting 
sands. He had shown off one day in French class (he 
was in senior French class) to the utter confusion of 
Mr. Reardon, whose accent Amory damned contemp- 
tuously, and to the delight of the class. Mr. Reardon, 
who had spent several weeks in Paris ten years before, 
took his revenge on the verbs, whenever he had his book 
open. But another time Amory showed off in history 
class, with quite disastrous results, for the boys there 
were his own age, and they shrilled innuendoes at each 
other all the following week: 

"Aw I b'lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolu- 
tion was laivgdy an affair of the middul dowses" or 

"Washington came of very good blood aw, quite 
good I b'lieve." 

Amory ingeniously tried to retrieve himself by blun- 
dering on purpose. Two years before he had commenced 
a history of the United States which, though it only got 
as far as the Colonial Wars, had been pronounced by 
his mother completely enchanting. 

His chief disadvantage lay in athletics, but as soon 
as he discovered that it was the touchstone of power 
and popularity at school, he began to make furious, per- 
sistent efforts to excel in the winter sports, and with his 
ankles aching and bending in spite of his efforts, he 
skated valiantly around the Lorelie rink every after- 
noon, wondering how soon he would be able to carry a 
hockey-stick without getting it inexplicably tangled in 
his skates. 

The invitation to Miss Myra St Claire's bobbing 
party spent the morning in his coat pocket, where it 
had an intense physical affair with a dusty piece of 
peanut brittle. During the afternoon he brought it to 
light with a sigh, and after some consideration and a 


preliminary draft in the back of Collar and Daniel's 
"First- Year Latin," composed an answer: 

My dear Miss Si, Claire: 

Your truly charming envitation for the evening of next Thursday 
evening was truly delightful to recieve this morning. I will be 
charm end inchanted indeed to present my compliments on next 

Thursday evening. _, . , 

Faithfully, Amory 

On Thursday, therefore, he walked pensively along 
the slippery, shovel-scraped sidewalks, and came in 
sight of Myra's house, on the half-hour after five, a late- 
ness which he fancied his mother would have favored. 
He waited on the door-step with his eyes nonchalantly 
half-closed, and planned his entrance with precision. 
He would cross the floor, not too hastily, to Mrs. St. 
Claire, and say with exactly the correct modulation: 

"My dear Mrs. St. Claire, I'm frightfully sorry to be 
late, but my maid" he paused there and realized he 
would be quoting "but my uncle and I had to see a 
iella Yes, I've met your enchanting daughter at 

Then he would shake hands, using that slight, half- 
foreign bow, with all the starchy little females, and nod 
to the fellas who would be standing 'round, paralyzed 
into rigid groups for mutual protection. 

A butler (one of the three in Minneapolis) swung open 
the door. Amory stepped inside and divested himself 
of cap and coat He was mildly surprised not to hear 
the shrill squawk of conversation from the next room, 
and he decided it must be quite formal. He approved 
of that as he approved of the butler. 

"Miss Myra," he said. 

To his surprise the butler grinned horribly. 

"Oh, yeah," he declared, "she's here." He was un- 


aware that his failure to be cockney was ruining his 
standing. Amory considered him coldly. 

"But," continued the butler, his voice rising unnec- 
essarily, "she's the only one what is here. The party's 

Amory gasped in sudden horror. 


"She's been waitin' for Amory Elaine. That's you, 
ain't it? Her mother says that if you showed up by 
five- thirty you two was to go after 'em in the Packard." 

Amory's despair was crystallized by the appearance of 
Myra herself, bundled to the ears in a polo coat, her 
face plainly sulky, her voice pleasant Tonly with diffi- 

"'Lo, Amory." 

"'Lo, Myra." He had described the state of his 

"Well you got here, anyways." 

"Well I'll tell you. I guess you don't know about 
the auto accident," he romanced. 

Myra's eyes opened wide. 

"Who was it to?" 

"Well," he continued desperately, "uncle 'n aunt 'n I." 

"Was any one killed?" 

Amory paused and then nodded. 

"Your uncle ? " alarm. 

"Oh, no just a horse a sorta gray horse." 

At this point the Erse butler snickered. 

"Probably killed the engine," he suggested. Amory 
would have put him on the rack without a scruple. 

" We'll go now," said Myra coolly. "You see, Amory, 
the bobs were ordered for five and everybody was here, 
so we couldn't wait " 

"Well, I couldn't help it, could I?" 

" So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll 


catch the bob before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, 

Amory's shredded poise dropped from him. He pic- 
tured the happy party jingling along snowy streets, the 
appearance of the limousine, the horrible public descent 
of him and Myra before sixty reproachful eyes, his 
apology a real one this time. He sighed aloud. 

"What?" inquired Myra. 

"Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to 
surely catch up with 'em before they get there?" He 
was encouraging a faint hope that they might slip into 
the Minnehaha Club and meet the others there, be 
found in blase seclusion before the fire and quite regain 
his lost attitude. 

"Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right let's hurry." 

He became conscious of his stomach. As they stepped 
into the machine he hurriedly slapped the paint of 
diplomacy over a rather box-like plan he had conceived. 
It was based upon some "trade-lasts" gleaned at danc- 
ing-school, to the effect that he was "awful good-looking 
and English, sort of." 

"Myra," he said, lowering his voice and choosing his 
words carefully, "I beg a thousand pardons. Can you 
ever forgive me? " 

She regarded him gravely, his intent green eyes, his 
mouth, that to her thirteen-year-old, arrow-collar taste 
was the quintessence of romance. Yes, Myra could for- 
give him very easily. 

" Why yes sure." 

He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. 
He had lashes. 

"I'm awful," he said sadly. "I'm diff'runt I don't 
know why I make faux pas. 'Cause I don't care, I 
s'pose." Then, recklessly: "I been smoking too much. 
I've got t'bacca heart." 


Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with 
Amory pale and reeling from the effect of nicotined 
lungs. She gave a little gasp. 

' ' Oh, A mory, don' t smoke. You'll stunt your growth I ' ' 

"I don't care," he persisted gloomily. "I gotta. I 
got the habit. I've done a lot of things that if my 
fambly knew" he hesitated, giving her imagination 
time to picture dark horrors "I went to the burlesque 
show last week." 

Myra was quite overcome. He turned the green eyes 
on her again. 

"You're the only girl in town I like much," he ex- 
claimed in a rush of sentiment. "You're simpatico." 

Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish 
though vaguely improper. 

Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limou- 
sine made a sudden turn she was jolted against him; 
their hands touched. 

"You shouldn't smoke, Amory," she whispered. 
"Don't you know that?" 

He shook his head. 

"Nobody cares." 

Myra hesitated. 

"/ care." 

Something stirred within Amory. 

" Oh, yes, you do ! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. 
I guess everybody knows that." 

"No, I havei 't," very slowly. 

A silence, while Amory thrilled. There was some- 
thing fascinating about Myra, shut away here cosily 
from the dim, chill air. Myra, a little bundle of clothes, 
with strands of yellow hair curling out from under her 
skating cap. 

'"'Because I've got a crush, too " He paused, for 
he heard in the distance the sound of young laughter, 


and, peering through the frosted glass along the lamp-lit 
street, he made out the dark outline of the bobbing 
party. He must act quickly. He reached over with a 
violent, jerky effort, and clutched Myra's hand her 
thumb, to be exact. 

"Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whis- 
pered. "I wanta talk to you I got to talk to you." 

Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant 
vision of her mother, and then alas for convention 
glanced into the eyes beside. 

"Turn down this side street, Richard, and drive 
straight to the Minnehaha Club ! " she cried through the 
speaking tube. Amory sank back against the cushions 
with a sigh of relief. 

"I can kiss her," he thought "I'll bet I can. I'll 
bet I can!" 

Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty, 
and the night around was chill and vibrant with rich 
tension. From the Country Club steps the roads 
stretched away, dark creases on the white blanket; huge 
heaps of snow lining the sides like the tracks of giant 
moles. They lingered for a moment on the steps, and 
watched the white holiday moon. 

"Pale moons like that one" Amory made a vague 
gesture "make people mysterieuse. You look like a 
young witch with her cap off and her hair sorta mussed" 
her hands clutched at her hair "Oh, leave it, it 
looks good." 

They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into 
the little den of his dreams, where a cosy fire was burn- 
ing before a big sink-down couch. A few years later 
this was to be a great stage for Amory, a cradle for many 
an emotional crisis. Now they talked for a moment 
about bobbing parties. 

"There's always a bunch of shy fellas," he com- 


mented, "sitting at the tail of the bob, sorta lurkin' an* 
whisperin' an' pushin' each other off. Then there's 
always some crazy cross-eyed girl" he gave a terrify- 
ing imitation "she's always talkin' hard, sorta, to the 

"You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra. 

"How d'y' mean?" Amory gave immediate atten- 
tion, on his own ground at last. 

"Oh always talking about crazy things. Why don't 
you come ski-ing with Marylyn and I to-morrow?" 

"I don't hike girls in the daytime," he said shortly, 
and then, thinking this a bit- abrupt, he added: "But I 
like you." He cleared his throat. "I like you first and 
second and third." 

Myra's eyes became dreamy. What a story this 
would make to tell Marylyn ! Here on the couch with 
this wonderful-looking boy the little fire the sense 
that they were alone in the great building 

Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appro- 

"I like you the first twenty-five," she confessed, her 
voice trembling, "and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth." 

Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As 
yet he had not even noticed it. 

But Amory, being on the spot, leaned over quickly 
and kissed Myra's cheek. He had never kissed a girl 
before, and he tasted his lips curiously, as if he had 
munched some new fruit. Then their lips brushed like 
young wild flowers in the wind. 

"We're awful," rejoiced Myra gently. She slipped 
her hand into his, her head drooped against his shoulder. 
Sudden revulsion seized Amory, disgust, loathing for 
the whole incident. He desired frantically to be away, 
never to see Myra again, never to kiss any one; he be- 
came conscious of his face and hers, of their clinging 


hands, and he wanted to creep out of his body and hide 
somewhere safe out of sight, up in the corner of his 

"Kiss me again." Her voice came out of a great 

"I don t want to," he heard himself saying. There 
was another pause. 

" I don't want to !" he repeated passionately. 

Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, 
the great bow on the back of her head trembling sym- 

"I hate you!" she cried. "Don't you ever dare. to 
speak to me again ! " 

"What?" stammered Amory. 

"I'll tell mama you kissed me! I wfll too! I will 
too! I'll tell mama, and she won't let me play with 

Amory rose and stared at her helplessly, as though 
she were a new animal of whose presence on the earth 
he had not heretofore been aware. 

The door opened suddenly, and Myra's mother ap- 
peared on the threshold, fumbling with her lorgnette. 

"Well," she began, adjusting it benignantly, "the 
man at the desk told me you two children were up here 
How do you do, Amory." 

Amory watched Myra and waited for the crash but 
none came. The pout faded, the high pink subsided, 
and Myra's voice was placid as a summer lake when 
she answered her mother. 

"Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we 
might as well " 

He heard from below the shrieks of laughter, and 
smelled the vapid odor of hot chocolate and tea-cakes as 
he silently followed mother and daughter down-stairs. 
The sound of the graphophone mingled with the voices 


of many girls humming the air, and a faint glow was 
born and spread over him: 

"Casey- Jones mounted to the cab-un 
Casey-Jones 'th his orders in his hand. 
Casey-Jones mounted to the cab-un 
Took his farewell journey to the prom-ised land." 


Amory spent nearly two years in Minneapolis. The 
first winter he wore moccasins that were born yellow, 
but after many applications of oil and dirt assumed their 
mature color, a dirty, greenish brown; he wore a gray 
plaid mackinaw coat, and a red toboggan cap. His 
dog, Count Del Monte, ate the red cap, so his uncle 
gave him a gray one that pulled down over his face. 
The trouble with this one was that you breathed into it 
and your breath froze; one day the darn thing froze his 
cheek. He rubbed snow on his cheek, but it turned 
bluish-black just the same. 

The Count Del Monte ate a box of bluing once, but 
it didn't hurt him. Later, however, he lost his mind 
and ran madly up the street, bumping into fences, roll- 
ing in gutters, and pursuing his eccentric course out of 
Amory's life. Amory cried on his bed. 

"Poor little Count," he cried. "Oh, poor little 

After several months he suspected Count of a fine 
piece of emotional acting. 

Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest 
line in literature occurred in Act III of "Arsene Lu- 


They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Satur- 
day matinees. The line was: 

"If one can't be a great artist or a great soldier, the 
next best thing is to be a great criminal." 

Arnory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This 
was it: 

"Marylyn and Sallee, 

Those are the girls for me. 
Marylyn stands above 
Sa.Hee in that sweet, deep love." 

He was interested in whether McGovern of Minne- 
sota would make the first or second Ail-American, how 
to do the card-pass, how to do the coin-pass, chameleon 
ties, how babies were born, and whether Three-fingered 
Brown was really a better pitcher than Christie Mathew- 

Among other things he read: "For the Honor of the 
School," "Little Women" (twice), "The Common 
Law," "Sapho," "Dangerous Dan McGrew," "The 
Broad Highway" (three times), "The Fall of the House 
of Usher," "Three Weeks," "Mary Ware, the Little 
Colonel's Chum," "Gunga Dhin," The Police Gazette, 
and Jim- Jam Jems. 

He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was par- 
ticularly fond of the cheerful murder stories of Mary 
Roberts Rineheart. 

School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for 
standard authors. His masters considered him idle, 
unreliable and superficially clever. 

He collected locks of hair from many girls. He wore 
the rings of several. Finally he could borrow no more 


rings, owing to his nervous habit of chewing them out 
of shape. This, it seemed, usually aroused the jealous 
suspicions of the next borrower. 

All through the summer months Amory and Frog 
Parker went each week to the Stock Company. After- 
ward they would stroll home in the balmy air of August 
night, dreaming along Hennepin and Nicollet Avenues, 
through the gay crowd. Amory wondered how people 
could fail to notice that he was a boy marked for glory, 
and when faces of the throng turned toward him and 
ambiguous eyes stared into his, he assumed the most 
romantic of expressions and walked on the air cushions 
that lie on the asphalts of fourteen. 

Always, after he was in bed, there were voices 
indefinite, fading, enchanting just outside his window, 
and before he fell asleep he would dream one of his 
favorite waking dreams, the one about becoming a 
great half-back, or the one about the Japanese invasion, 
when he was rewarded by being made the youngest 
general in the world. It was always the becoming he 
dreamed of, never the being. This, too, was quite char- 
acteristic of Amory. 


Before he was summoned back to Lake Geneva, he 
had appeared, shy but inwardly glowing, in his first long 
trousers, set off by a purple accordion tie and a "Bel- 
mont" collar with the edges unassailably meeting, pur- 
ple socks, and handkerchief with a purple border peep- 
ing from his breast pocket. But more than that, he 
had formulated his first philosophy, a code to live by, 
which, as near as it can be named, was a sort of aristo- 
cratic egotism. 


He had realized that his best interests were bound 
up with those of a certain variant, changing person, 
whose label, in order that his past might always be 
identified with him, was Amory Elaine. Amory marked 
himself a fortunate youth, capable of infinite expansion 
for good or evil. He did not consider himself a "strong 
char'c'ter," but relied on his facility (learn things sorta 
quick) and his superior mentality (read a lotta deep 
books). He was proud of the fact that he could never 
become a mechanical or scientific genius. From no 
other heights was he debarred. 

Physically. Amory thought that he was exceedingly 
handsome. He was. He fancied himself an athlete of 
possibilities and a supple dancer. 

Socially. Here his condition was, perhaps, most dan- 
gerous. He granted himself personality, charm, mag- 
netism, poise, the power of dominating all contemporary 
males, the gift of fascinating all women. 

Mentally. Complete, unquestioned superiority. 

Now a confession will have to be made. Amory had 
rather a Puritan conscience. Not that he yielded to it 
later in life he almost completely slew it but at fif- 
teen it made him consider himseLf a great deal worse 
than other boys . . . unscrupulousness . . . the desire 
to influence people in almost every way, even for evil 
... a certain coldness and lack of affection, amounting 
sometimes to cruelty ... a shifting sense of honor 
... an unholy selfishness ... a puzzled, furtive in- 
terest in everything concerning sex. 

There was, also, a curious strain of weakness running 
crosswise through his make-up ... a harsh phrase 
from the lips of an older boy '(older boys usually detested 
him) was liable to sweep him off his poise into surly sen- 
sitiveness, or timid stupidity ... he was a slave to his 
own moods and he felt that though he was capable of 


recklessness and audacity, he possessed neither courage, 
perseverance, nor self-respect. 

Vanity, tempered with self-suspicion if not self- 
knowledge, a sense of people as automatons to his will, 
a desire to "pass" as many boys as possible and get to 
a vague top of the world . . . with this background 
did Amory drift into adolescence. 


The train slowed up with midsummer languor at 
Lake Geneva, and Amory caught sight of his mother 
waiting in her electric on the gravelled station drive. 
It was an ancient electric, one of the early types, and 
painted gray. The sight of her sitting there, slenderly 
erect, and of her face, where beauty and dignity com- 
bined, melting to a dreamy recollected smile, filled him 
with a sudden great pride of her. As they kissed coolly 
and he stepped into the electric, he felt a quick fear 
lest he had lost the requisite charm to measure up to 

"Dear boy you're so tall . . . look behind and see 
if there's anything coming . . ." 

She looked left and right, she slipped cautiously into 
a speed of two miles an hour, beseeching Amory to act 
as sentinel; and at one busy crossing she made him get 
out and run ahead to signal her forward like a traffic 
policeman. Beatrice was what might be termed a care- 
ful driver. 

"You are tall but you're still very handsome you've 
skipped the awkward age, or is that sixteen; perhaps 
it's fourteen or fifteen; I can never remember; but 
you've skipped it" 

"Don't embarrass me," murmured Amory. 

"But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look 


as if they were a set don't they? Is your underwear 
purple, too?" 

Amory grunted impolitely. 

"You must go to Brooks' and get some really nice 
suits. Oh, we'll have a talk to-night or perhaps to- 
morrow night. I want to tell you about your heart 
you've probably been neglecting your heart and you 
don't know." 

Amory thought how superficial was the recent over- 
lay of his own generation. Aside from a minute shy- 
ness, he felt that the old cynical kinship with his mother 
had not been one bit broken. Yet for the first few 
days he wandered about the gardens and along the 
shore in a state of superloneliness, finding a lethargic 
content in smoking "Bull" at the garage with one of 
the chauffeurs. 

The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with old and 
new summer houses and many fountains and white 
benches that came suddenly into sight from foKage- 
hung hiding-places; there was a great and constantly 
increasing family of white cats that prowled the many 
flower-beds and were silhouetted suddenly at night 
against the darkening trees. It was on one of the 
shadowy paths that Beatrice at last captured Amory, 
after Mr. Elaine had, as usual, retired for the evening 
to his private library. After reproving him for avoid- 
ing her, she took him for a long tte-a-tete in the moon- 
light He could not reconcile himself to her beauty, 
that was mother to his own, the exquisite neck and 
shoulders, the grace of a fortunate woman of thirty. 

"Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a 
strange, weird time after I left you." 

"Did you, Beatrice?" 

"When I had my last breakdown" she spoke of it 
as a sturdy, gallant feat. 


"The doctors told me" her voice sang on a confi- 
dential note "that if any man alive had done the con- 
sistent drinking that I have, he would have been physi- 
cally shattered, my dear, and in his grave long in his 

Amory winced, and wondered how this would have 
sounded to Froggy Parker. 

"Yes," continued Beatrice tragically, "I had dreams 
wonderful visions." She pressed the palms of her 
hands into her eyes. "I saw bronze rivers lapping mar- 
ble shores, and great birds that soared through the air, 
parti-colored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard 
strange music and the flare of barbaric trumpets 

Amory had snickered. 

"What, Amory?" 

"I said go on, Beatrice." 

"That was all it merely recurred and recurred 
gardens that flaunted coloring against which this would 
be quite dull, moons that whirled and swayed, paler than 
winter moons, more golden than harvest moons " 

"Are you quite well now, Beatrice?" 

"Quite well as well as I will ever be. I am not 
understood, Amory. I know that can't express it to 
you, Amory, but I am not understood." 

Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his 
mother, rubbing his head gently against her shoulder. 

"Poor Beatrice poor Beatrice." 

"Tell me about you, Amory. Did you have two 
horrible years?" 

Amory considered lying, and then decided against it. 

"No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted myself 
to the bourgeoisie. I became conventional." He sur- 
prised himself by saying that, and he pictured how 
Froggy would have gaped. 


"Beatrice," he said suddenly, "I want to go away to 
school. Everybody in Minneapolis is going to go away 
to school." 

Beatrice showed some alarm. 

"But you're only fifteen." 

"Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, 
and I want to, Beatrice." 

On Beatrice's suggestion the subject was dropped for 
the rest of the walk, but a week later she delighted him 
by saying: 

"Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. 
If you still want to, you can go to school." 


"To St. Regis's in Connecticut." 

Amory felt a quick excitement; 

"It's being arranged," continued Beatrice. "It's bet- 
ter that you should go away. I'd have preferred you 
to have gone to Eton, and then to Christ Church, Ox- 
ford, but it seems impracticable now and for the pres- 
ent we'll let the university question take care of itself." 

"What are you going to do, Beatrice?" 

"Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret away my 
years in this country. Not for a second do I regret 
being American indeed, I think that a regret typical 
of very vulgar people, and I feel sure we are the great 
coming nation yet" and she sighed "I feel my life 
should have drowsed away close to an older, mellower 
civilization, a land of greens and autumnal browns " 

Amory did not answer, so his mother continued: 

"My regret is that you haven't been abroad, but still, 
as you are a man, it's better that you should grow up 
here under the snarling eagle is that the right term?" 

Amory agreed that it was. She would not have ap- 
preciated the Japanese invasion. 

"When do I go to school?" 


"Next month. You'll have to start East a little 
early to take your examinations. After that you'll 
have a free week, so I want you to go up the Hudson 
and pay a visit." 

"To who?" 

"To Monsignor Darcy, Amory. He wants to see 
you. He went to Harrow and then to Yale became a 
Catholic. I want him to talk to you I feel he can be 
such a help " She stroked his auburn hair gently. 
"Dear Amory, dear Amory " 

"Dear Beatrice 

So early in September Amory, provided with "six 
suits summer underwear, six suits winter underwear, 
one sweater or T shirt, one jersey, one overcoat, winter, 
etc.," set out for New England, the land of schools. 

There were Andover and Exeter with their memories 
of New England dead large, college-like democracies; 
St. Mark's, Groton, St. Regis' recruited from Boston 
and the Knickerbocker families of New York; St. Paul's, 
with its great rinks; Pomfret and St. George's, prosper- 
ous and well-dressed; Taft and Hotchkiss, which pre- 
pared the wealth of the Middle West for social success 
at Yale; Pawling, Westminster, Choate, Kent, and a 
hundred others; all milling out their well-set-up, conven- 
tional, impressive type, year after year; then* mental 
stimulus the college entrance exams; their vague pur- 
pose set forth in a hundred circulars as "To impart a 
Thorough Mental, Moral, and Physical Training as a 
Christian Gentleman, to fit the boy for meeting the prob- 
lems of his day and generation, and to give a solid foun- 
dation in the Arts and Sciences." 

At St. Regis' Amory stayed three days and took his 
exams with a scoffing confidence, then doubling back 
to New York to pay his tutelary visit The metropolis, 


barely glimpsed, made little impression on him, except 
for the sense of cleanliness he drew from the tall white 
buildings seen from a Hudson River steamboat in the 
early morning. Indeed, his mind was so crowded with 
dreams of athletic prowess at school that he considered 
this visit only as a rather tiresome prelude to the great 
adventure. This, however, it did not prove to be. 

Monsignor Darcy's house was an ancient, rambling 
structure set on a hill overlooking the river, and there 
lived its owner, between his trips to all parts of the 
Roman-Catholic world, rather like an exiled Stuart 
king waiting to be called to the rule of his land. Mon- 
signor was forty-four then, and bustling a trifle too 
stout for symmetry, with hair the color of spun gold, 
and a brilliant, enveloping personality. When he came 
into a room clad in his full purple regalia from thatch 
to toe, he resembled a Turner sunset, and attracted 
both admiration and attention. He had written two 
novels: one of them violently anti-Catholic, just before 
his conversion, and five years later another, in which 
he had attempted to turn all his clever jibes against 
Catholics into even cleverer innuendoes against Epis- 
copalians. He was intensely ritualistic, startlingly dra- 
matic, loved the idea of God enough to be a celibate, 
and rather liked his neighbor. 

Children adored him because he was like a child; 
youth revelled in his company because he was still a 
youth, and couldn't be shocked. In the proper land 
and century he might have been a Richelieu at present 
he was a very moral, very religious (if not particularly 
pious) clergyman, making a great mystery about pulling 
rusty wires, and appreciating life to the fullest, if not 
entirely enjoying it. 

He and Amory took to each other at first sight the 
jovial, impressive prelate who could dazzle an embassy 


ball, and the green-eyed, intent youth, in his first long 
trousers, accepted in their own minds a relation of 
father and son within a half-hour's conversation. 

"My dear boy, I've been waiting to see you for years. 
Take a big chair and we'll have a chat." 

"I've just come from school St. Regis's, you know." 

"So your mother says a remarkable woman; have a 
cigarette I'm sure you smoke. Well, if you're like me, 
you loathe all science and mathematics " 

Amory nodded vehemently. 

"Hate 'em all. Like English and history." 

"Of course. You'll hate school for a while, too, but 
I'm glad you're going to St. Regis's." 


"Because it's a gentleman's school, and democracy 
won't hit you so early. You'll find plenty of that in 

"I want to go to Princeton," said Amory. "I don't 
know why, but I think of all Harvard men as sissies, 
like I used to be, and all Yale men as wearing big blue 
sweaters and smoking pipes." 

Monsignor chuckled. 

"I'm one, you know." 

"Oh, you're different I think of Princeton as being 
lazy and good-looking and aristocratic you know, like 
a spring day. Harvard seems sort of indoors " 

"And Yale is November, crisp and energetic," fin- 
ished Monsignor. 

"That's it." 

They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which 
they never recovered. 

"I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie," announced Amory. 

"Of course you were and for Hannibal " 

"Yes, and for the Southern Confederacy." He was 
rather sceptical about being an Irish patriot he sus- 


pected that being Irish was being somewhat common 
but Monsignor assured him that Ireland was a romantic 
lost cause and Irish people quite charming, and that it 
should, by all means, be one of his principal biasses. 

After a crowded hour which included several more 
cigarettes, and during which Monsignor learned, to his 
surprise but not to his horror, that Amory had not 
been brought up a Catholic, he announced that he had 
another guest. This turned out to be the Honorable 
Thornton Hancock, of Boston, ex-minister to The 
Hague, author of an erudite history of the Middle Ages 
and the last of a distinguished, patriotic, and brilliant 

"He comes here for a rest," said Monsignor confiden- 
tially, treating Amory as a contemporary. "I act as 
an escape from the weariness of agnosticism, and I think 
I'm the only man who knows how his staid old mind is 
really at sea and longs for a sturdy spar like the Church 
to cling to." 

Then* first luncheon was one of the memorable events 
of Amory's early life. He was quite radiant and gave 
off a peculiar brightness and charm. Monsignor called 
out the best that he had thought by question and sug- 
gestion, and Amory talked with an ingenious brilliance 
of a thousand impulses and desires and repulsions and 
faiths and fears. He and Monsignor held the floor, and 
the older man, with his less receptive, less accepting, 
yet certainly not colder mentality, seemed content to 
listen and bask in the mellow sunshine that played be- 
tween these two. Monsignor gave the effect of sun- 
light to many people; Amory gave it in his youth and, 
to some extent, when he was very much older, but never 
again was it quite so mutually spontaneous. 

"He's a radiant boy," thought Thornton Hancock, 
who had seen the splendor of two continents and talked 


with Parnell and Gladstone and Bismarck and after- 
ward he added to Monsignor: "But his education ought 
not to be intrusted to a school or college." 

But for the next four years the best of Amory's intel- 
lect was concentrated on matters of popularity, the in- 
tricacies of a university social system and American 
Society as represented by Biltmore Teas and Hot Springs 

... In all, a wonderful week, that saw Amory's 
mind turned inside out, a hundred of his theories con- 
firmed, and his joy of life crystallized to a thousand am- 
bitions. Not that the conversation was scholastic 
heaven forbid! Amory had only the vaguest idea as 
to what Bernard Shaw was but Monsignor made quite 
as much out of "The Beloved Vagabond" and "Sir 
Nigel," taking good care that Amory never once felt 
out of his depthi 

But the trumpets were sounding for Amory's prelimi- 
nary skirmish with his own generation. 

"You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like 
us our home is where we are not," said Monsignor. 

"I am sorry " 

"No, you're not. No one person in the world is 
necessary to you or to me." 

"Well " 


Amory's two years at St. Regis', though in turn pain- 
ful and triumphant, had as little real significance in his 
own life as the American "prep" school, crushed as it 
is under the heel of the universities, has to American life 
in general. We have no Eton to create the self-con- 
sciousness of a governing class; we have, instead, clean, 
flaccid and innocuous preparatory schools. 


He went all wrong at the start, was generally consid- 
ered both conceited and arrogant, and universally de- 
tested. He played football intensely, alternating a 
reckless brilliancy with a tendency to keep himself as 
safe from hazard as decency would permit. In a wild 
panic he backed out of a fight with a boy his own size, 
to a chorus of scorn, and a week later, in desperation, 
picked a battle with another boy very much bigger, from 
which he emerged badly beaten, but rather proud of 

He was resentful against all those in authority over 
him, and this, combined with a lazy indifference toward 
his work, exasperated every master in school. He grew 
discouraged and imagined himself a pariah; took to 
sulking in corners and reading after lights. With a 
dread of being alone he attached a few friends, but since 
they were not among the elite of the school, he used 
them simply as mirrors of himself, audiences before 
which he might do that posing absolutely essential 
to him. He was unbearably lonely, desperately un- 

There were some few grains of comfort. Whenever 
Amory was submerged, his vanity was the last part to 
go below the surface, so he could still enjoy a comfort- 
able glow when "Wookey-wookey," the deaf old house- 
keeper, told him that he was the best-looking boy she 
had ever seen. It had pleased him to be the lightest 
and youngest man on the first football squad; it pleased 
him when Doctor Dougall told him at the end of a 
heated conference that he could, if he wished, get the 
best marks in school. But Doctor Dougall was wrong. 
It was temperamentally impossible for Amory to get 
the best marks in schooL 

Miserable, confined to bounds, unpopular with both 
faculty and students that was Amory's first term. 


But at Christmas he had returned to Minneapolis, 
tight-lipped and strangely jubilant. 

"Oh, I was sort of fresh at first," he told Frog Parker 
patronizingly, "but I got along fine lightest man on 
the squad. You ought to go away to school, Froggy. 
It's great stun*." 


On the last night of his first term, Mr. Margotson, the 
senior master, sent word to study hall that Amory was 
to come to his room at nine. Amory suspected that 
advice was forthcoming, but he determined to be courte- 
ous, because this Mr. Margotson had been kindly dis- 
posed toward him. 

His summoner received him gravely, and motioned 
him to a chair. He hemmed several times and looked 
consciously kind, as a man will when he knows he's on 
delicate ground. 

"Amory," he began. "I've sent for you on a per- 
sonal matter." 

"Yes, sir." 

"I've noticed you this year and I I like you. I 
think you have in you the makings of a a very good 

"Yes, sir," Amory managed to articulate. He hated 
having people talk as if he were an admitted failure. 

"But I've noticed," continued the older man blindly, 
"that you're not very popular with the boys." 

"No, sir." Amory licked his lips. 

"Ah I thought you might not understand exactly 
what it was they ah objected to. I'm going to tell 
you, because I believe ah that when a boy knows his 
difficulties he's better able to cope with them to con- 
form to what others expect of him." He a-hemmed 


again with delicate reticence, and continued: "They 
seem to think that you're ah rather too fresh 

Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, 
scarcely controlling his voice when he spoke. 

"I know oh, don't you s'pose I know." His voice 
rose. "I know what they think; do you s'pose you 
have to tell me!" He paused. "I'm I've got to go 
back now hope I'm not rude " 

He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, 
as he walked to his house, he exulted in his refusal to be 

"That damn old fool!" he cried wildly. "As if I 
didn't know/" 

He decided, however, that this was a good excuse not 
to go back to study hall that night, so, comfortably 
couched up in his room, he munched nabiscos and 
finished "The White Company." 


There was a bright star in February. New York 
burst upon hi on Washington's Birthday with the bril- 
liance of a long-anticipated event. His glimpse of it 
as a vivid whiteness against a deep-blue sky had left a 
picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities in 
the Arabian Nights; but this time he saw it by elec- 
tric light, and romance gleamed from the chariot-race 
sign on Broadway and from the women's eyes at the 
Astor, where he and young Paskert from St. Regis' 
had dinner. When they walked down the aisle of the 
theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging and discord 
of untuned violins and the sensuous, heavy fragrance 
of paint and powder, he moved in a sphere of epicurean 
delight. Everything enchanted him. The play was 
"The Little Millionaire," with George M. Cohan, and 


there was one stunning young brunette who made him 
sit with brimming eyes in the ecstasy of watching her 

"Oh you wonderful girl, 
What a wonderful girl you are " 

sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passion- 

"All your wonderful words 
Thrill me through " 

The violins swelled and quavered on the last notes, the 
girl sank to a crumpled butterfly on the stage, a great 
burst of clapping filled the house. Oh, to fall in love 
like that, to the languorous magic melody of such a 

The last scene was laid on a roof-garden, and the 
'cellos sighed to the musical moon, while light adventure 
and facile froth-like comedy flitted back and forth in the 
calcium. Amory was on fire to be an habitue of roof- 
gardens, to meet a girl who should look like that bet- 
ter, that very girl; whose hair would be drenched with 
golden moonlight, while at his elbow sparkling wine was 
poured by an unintelligible waiter. When the curtain 
fell for the last time he gave such a long sigh that the 
people in front of him twisted around and stared and 
said loud enough for him to hear: 

"What a remarkable-looking boy!" 

This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if 
he really did seem handsome to the population of New 

Paskert and he walked in silence toward their hotel. 
The former was the first to speak. His uncertain fif- 
teen-year-old voice broke in in a melancholy strain on 
Amory's musings: 

'Td marry that girl to-night." 


There was no need to ask what girl he referred to. 

"I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to 
my people," continued Paskert. 

Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had 
said it instead of Paskert. It sounded so mature. 

"I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?" 

"No, sir, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth 
with emphasis, "and I know that girl's as good as gold. 
I can tell." 

They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, 
dreaming on the music that eddied out of the cafes. 
New faces flashed on and off like myriad lights, pale or 
rouged faces, tired, yet sustained by a weary excitement. 
Amory watched them in fascination. He was planning 
his life. He was going to live in New York, and be 
known at every restaurant and cafe, wearing a dress- 
suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping away 
the dull hours of the forenoon. 

"Yes, sir, I'd marry that girl to-night!" 


October of his second and last year at St. Regis' was 
a high point in Amory's memory. The game with Gro- 
ton was played from three of a snappy, exhilarating 
afternoon far into the crisp autumnal twilight, and 
Amory at quarter-back, exhorting in wild despair, mak- 
ing impossible tackles, calling signals in a voke that 
had diminished to a hoarse, furious whisper, yet found 
time to revel in the blood-stained bandage around his 
head, and the straining, glorious heroism of plunging, 
crashing bodies and aching limbs. For those minutes 
courage flowed like wine out of the November dusk, 
and he was the eternal hero, one with the sea-rover on 
the prow of a Norse galley, one with Roland and Hora- 


tius, Sir Nigel and Ted Coy, scraped and stripped into 
trim and then flung by his own will into the breach, 
beating back the tide, hearing from afar the thunder of 
cheers . . . finally bruised and weary, but still elusive, 
circling an end, twisting, changing pace, straight-arm- 
ing . . . falling behind the Groton goal with two men 
on his legs, in the only touchdown of the game. 


From the scoffing superiority of sixth-form year and 
success Amory looked back with cynical wonder on his 
status of the year before. He was changed as com- 
pletely as Amory Elaine could ever be changed. Amory 
plus Beatrice plus two years in Minneapolis these had 
been his ingredients when he entered St. Regis'. But 
the Minneapolis years were not a thick enough overlay 
to conceal the "Amory plus Beatrice" from the ferret- 
ing eyes of a boarding-school, so St. Regis' had very 
painfully drilled Beatrice out of him, and begun to lay 
down new and more conventional planking on the fun- 
damental Amory. But both St. Regis' and Amory were 
unconscious of the fact that this fundamental Amory 
had not in himself changed. Those qualities for which 
he had suffered, his moodiness, his tendency to pose, his 
laziness, and his love of playing the fool, were now taken 
as a matter of course, recognized eccentricities in a star 
quarter-back, a clever actor, and the editor of the 
St. Regis Tattler: it puzzled him to see impressionable 
small boys imitating the very vanities that had not long 
ago been contemptible weaknesses. 

After the football season he slumped into dreamy 
content. The night of the pre-holiday dance he slipped 
away and went early to bed for the pleasure of hearing 
the violin music cross the grass and come surging in at 


his window. Many nights he lay there dreaming awake 
of secret cafes in Mont Martre, where ivory women 
delved in romantic mysteries with diplomats and soldiers 
of fortune, while orchestras played Hungarian waltzes 
and the air was thick and exotic with intrigue and 
moonlight and adventure. In the spring he read 
"L' Allegro," by request, and was inspired to lyrical 
outpourings on the subject of Arcady and the pipes of 
Pan. He moved his bed so that the sun would wake 
him at dawn that he might dress and go out to the 
archaic swing that hung from an apple-tree near the 
sixth-form house. Seating himself in this he would 
pump higher and higher until he got the effect of swing- 
ing into the wide air, into a fairy-land of piping satyrs 
and nymphs with the faces of fair-haired girls he passed 
in the streets of Eastchester. As the swing reached its 
highest point, Arcady really lay just over the brow of a 
certain hill, where the brown road dwindled out of sight 
in a golden dot. 

He read voluminously all spring, the beginning of 
his eighteenth year: "The Gentleman from Indiana," 
"TheJSTew Arabian Nights," "The Morals of Marcus 
Ordeyne," "The Man Who Was Thursday," which he 
liked without understanding; "Stover at Yale," that 
became somewhat of a text-book; "Dombey and Son," 
because he thought he really should read better stuff; 
Robert Chambers, David Graham Phillips, and E. 
Phillips Oppenheim complete, and a scattering of Tenny- 
son and Kipling. Of all his class work only "L' Allegro" 
and some quality of rigid clarity in solid geometry stirred 
his languid interest. 

As June drew near, he felt the need of conversation to 
formulate his own ideas, and, to his surprise, found a 
co-philosopher in Rahill, the president of the sixth form. 
In many a talk, on the highroad or lying belly-down 


along the edge of the baseball diamond, or late at night 
with their cigarettes glowing in the dark, they threshed 
out the questions of school, and there was developed the 
term "slicker." 

"Got tobacco?" whispered Rahill one night, putting 
his head inside the door five minutes after lights. 


"I'm coming in." 

"Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, 
why don't you." 

Amory sat up in bed and lit a cigarette while Rahill 
settled for a conversation. RahilTs favorite subject 
was the respective futures of the sixth form, and Amory 
never tired of outlining them for his benefit. 

"Ted Converse? 'At's easy. He'll fail his exams, 
tutor all summer at Harstrum's, get into Sheff with 
about four conditions, and flunk out in the middle of 
the freshman year. Then he'll go back West and raise 
hell for a year or so; finally his father will make him go 
into the paint business. He'll marry and have four 
sons, all bone heads. He'll always think St. Regis's 
spoiled him, so he'll send his sons to day school in Port- 
land. He'll die of locomotor ataxia when he's forty- 
one, and his wife will give a baptizing stand or whatever 
you call it to the Presbyterian Church, with his name 
on it " 

"Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How 
about yourself?" 

"I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're phil- 

"I'm not." 

"Sure you are. You've got a darn good head on 
you." But Amory knew that nothing in the abstract, 
no theory or generality, ever moved Rahill until he 
stubbed his toe upon the concrete minutiae of it 


"Haven't," insisted Rahill. "I let people impose on 
me here and don't get anything out of it I'm the prey 
of my friends, damn it do their lessons, get 'em out of 
trouble, pay 'em stupid summer visits, and always en- 
tertain their kid sisters; keep my temper when they 
get selfish and then they think they pay me back by 
voting for me and telling me I'm the 'big man' of St. 
Regis's. I want to get where everybody does their own 
work and I can tell people where to go. I'm tired of 
being nice to every poor fish in school." 

"You're not a slicker," said Amory suddenly. 

"A what?" 

"A slicker." 

"What the devil's that?" 

"Well, it's something that that there's a lot of 
them. You're not one, and neither am I, though I am 
more than you are." 

"Who is one? What makes you one?" 

Amory considered. 

"Why why, I suppose that the sign of it is when a 
fellow slicks his hair back with water." 


"Yes sure. He's a slicker." 

They spent two evenings getting an exact definition. 
The slicker was good-looking or clean-locking', he had 
brains, social brains, that is, and he used all means on 
the broad path of honesty to get ahead, be popular, ad- 
mired, and never in trouble. He dressed well, was par- 
ticularly neat in appearance, and derived his name 
from the fact that his hair was inevitably worn short, 
soaked in water or tonic, parted in the middle, and 
slicked back as the current of fashion dictated. The 
slickers of that year had adopted tortoise-shell specta- 
cles as badges of their slickerhood, and this made them 
so easy to recognize that Amory and Rahill never missed 



one. The slicker seemed distributed through school, al- 
ways a little wiser and shrewder than his contempo- 
raries, managing some team or other, and keeping his 
cleverness carefully concealed. 

Amory found the slicker a most valuable classification 
until his junior year in college, when the outline became 
so blurred and indeterminate that it had to be subdivided 
many times, and became only a quality. Amory's secret 
ideal had all the slicker qualifications, but, in addition, 
courage and tremendous brains and talents also Amory 
conceded him a bizarre streak that was quite irreconcila- 
ble to the slicker proper. 

This was a first real break from the hypocrisy of school 
tradition. The slicker was a definite element of suc- 
cess, differing intrinsically from the prep school "big 

i. Clever sense of social values. 

Dresses well. Pretends that 
dress is superficial but 
knows that it isn't. 

Goes into such activities as 
he can shine in. 

Gets to college and is, in a 
worldly way, successful. 

5. Hair slicked. 


1. Inclined to stupidity and 

unconscious of social val- 

2. Thinks dress is superficial, 

and is inclined to be care- 
less about it. 

3. Goes out for everything 

from a sense of duty. 

4. Gets to college and has 

a problematical future. 
Feels lost without his cir- 
cle, and always says that 
school days were happiest, 
after all. Goes back to 
school and makes speeches 
about what St. Regis's 
boys are doing. 
<;. Hair not slicked. 

Amory had decided definitely on Princeton, even 
though he would be the only boy entering that year 


from St. Regis'. Yale had a romance and glamour from 
the tales of Minneapolis, and St. Regis' men who had 
been "tapped for Skull and Bones," but Princeton drew 
him most, with its atmosphere of bright colors and its 
alluring reputation as the pleasantest country club in 
America. Dwarfed by the menacing college exams, 
Amory's school days drifted into the past. Years after- 
ward, when he went back to St. Regis', he seemed to 
have forgotten the successes of sixth-form year, and to 
be able to picture himself only as the unadjustable boy 
who had hurried down corridors, jeered at by his rabid 
contemporaries mad with common sense. 


AT first Amory noticed only the wealth of sunshine 
creeping across the long, green swards, dancing on the 
leaded window-panes, and swimming around the tops 
of spires and towers and battlemented walls. Gradually 
he realized that he was really walking up University 
Place, self-conscious about his suitcase, developing a 
new tendency to glare straight ahead when he passed 
any one. Several times he could have sworn that men 
turned to look at him critically. He wondered vaguely 
if there was something the matter with his clothes, and 
wished he had shaved that morning on the train. He 
felt unnecessarily stiff and awkward among these white- 
flannelled, bareheaded youths, who must be juniors and 
seniors, judging from the savoir faire with which they 

He found that 12 University Place was a large, dilapi- 
dated mansion, at present apparently uninhabited, 
though he knew it housed usually a dozen freshmen. 
After a hurried skirmish with his landlady he sallied out 
on a tour of exploration, but he had gone scarcely a block 
when he became horribly conscious that he must be the 
only man in town who was wearing a hat. He returned 
hurriedly to 12 University, left his derby, and, emerging 
bareheaded, loitered down Nassau Street, stopping to 
investigate a display of athletic photographs in a store 
window, including a large one of Allenby, the football 
captain, and next attracted by the sign "Jigger Shop" 
over a confectionary window. This sounded familiar, 
so he sauntered in and took a seat on a high stool. 



"Chocolate sundae," he told a colored person. 

"Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?" 

"Why yes." 

"Bacon bun?" 

"Why yes." 

He munched four of these, finding them of pleasing 
savor, and then consumed another double-chocolate 
jigger before ease descended upon him. After a cursory 
inspection of the pillow-cases, leather pennants, and 
Gibson Girls that lined the walls, he left, and continued 
along Nassau Street with his hands in his pockets. 
Gradually he was learning to distinguish between upper 
classmen and entering men, even though the freshman 
cap would not appear until the following Monday. 
Those who were too obviously, too nervously at home 
were freshmen, for as each train brought a new contin- 
gent it was immediately absorbed into the hatless, 
white-shod, book-laden throng, whose function seemed 
to be to drift endlessly up and down the street, emitting 
great clouds of smoke from brand-new pipes. By after- 
noon Amory realized that now the newest arrivals were 
taking him for an upper classman, and he tried conscien- 
tiously to look both pleasantly blase and casually criti- 
cal, which was as near as he could analyze the preva- 
lent facial expression. 

At five o'clock he felt the need of hearing his own 
voice, so he retreated to his house to see if any one else 
had arrived. Having climbed the rickety stairs he scru- 
tinized his room resignedly, concluding that it was hope- 
less to attempt any more inspired decoration than class 
banners and tiger pictures. There was a tap at the 

"Come in!" 

A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile 
appeared in the doorway. 


"Got a hammer?" 

"No sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she 
goes by, has one." 

The stranger advanced into the room. 

"You an inmate of this asylum?" 

Amory nodded. 

"Awful barn for the rent we pay." 

Amory had to agree that it was. 

"I thought of the campus," he said, "but they say 
there's so few freshmen that they're lost. Have to sit 
around and study for something to do." 

The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself. 

"My name's Holiday." 

"Elaine's my name." 

They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. 
Amory grinned. 

"Where'd you prep?" 

"Andover where did you?" 

"SL Regis's." 

"Oh, did you? I had a cousin there." 

They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holi- 
day announced that he was to meet his brother for 
dinner at six. 

"Come along and have a bite with us." 

"All right." 

At the Kenilworth Amory met Burne Holiday he of 
the gray eyes was Kerry and during a limpid meal of 
thin soup and anaemic vegetables they stared at the 
other freshmen, who sat either in small groups looking 
very ill at ease, or in large groups seeming very much 
at home. 

"I hear Commons is pretty bad," said Amory. 

"That's the rumor. But you've got to eat there or 
pay anyways." 




"Oh, at Princeton you've got to swallow everything 
the first year. It's like a damned prep school." 

Amory agreed. 

"Lot of pep, though," he insisted. "I wouldn't have 
gone to Yale for a million." 

"Me either." 

"You going out for anything?" inquired Amory of 
the elder brother. 

"Not me Burne here is going out for the Prince 
the Daily Princetonian, you know." 

"Yes, I know." 

"You going out for anything?" 

"Why yes. I'm going to take a whack at freshman 
football." " 

"Play at St. Regis's?" 

"Some," admitted Amory depreciatingly, "but I'm 
getting so damned thin." 

"You're not thin." 

"Well, I used to be stocky last fall." 


After supper they attended the movies, where Amory 
was fascinated by the glib comments of a man in front 
of him, as well as by the wild yelling and shouting. 


"Oh, honey-baby you're so big and strong, but oh, so 


"Oh, Clinchr 

"Kiss her, kiss 'at lady, quick f" 

"Oh-h-h !" 

A group began whistling "By the Sea," and the audi- 
ence took it up noisily. This was followed by an indis- 
tinguishable song that included much stamping and 
then by an endless, incoherent dirge. 



She works in a Jam Factoree 
And that-may-be-all-right 
But you can't-fool-me 
For I know DAMN WELL 
That she DONT-make- jam-all-night ! 

As they pushed out, giving and receiving curious inv 
personal glances, Amory decided that he liked the mov- 
ies, wanted to enjoy them as the row of upper classmen in 
front had enjoyed them, with their arms along the backs 
of the seats, their comments Gaelic and caustic, their at- 
titude a mixture of critical wit and tolerant amusement. 

"Want a sundae I mean a jigger?" asked Kerry. 


They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, 
eased back to 12. 

"Wonderful night." 

"It's a whiz." 

"You men going to unpack?" 

"Guess so. Come on, Burne." 

Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so 
he bade them good night. 

The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts 
back at the last edge of twilight. The early moon had 
drenched the arches with pale blue, and, weaving over 
the night, in and out of the gossamer rifts of moon, 
swept a song, a song with more than a hint of sadness, 
infinitely transient, infinitely regretful. 

He remembered that an alumnus of the nineties had 
told him of one of Booth Tarkington's amusements: 
standing in mid-campus in the small hours and singing 
tenor songs to the stars, arousing mingled emotions in 
the couched undergraduates according to the sentiment 
of their moods. 


Now, far down the shadowy line of University Place a 
white-dad phalanx broke the gloom, and marching fig- 
ures, white-shirted, white-trousered, swung rhythmically 
up the street, with linked arms and heads thrown back: 

"Going back going back, 
Going back to Nas-sau Hall, 
Going back going back 
To the Best Old Place of All. 
Going back going back, 
From all this earth-ly ball, 
We'll clear the track as we go back 
Going back to Nas-sau Hall !" 

Amory dosed his eyes as the ghostly procession drew 
near. The song soared so high that all dropped out 
except the tenors, who bore the melody triumphantly 
past the danger-point and relinquished it to the fantastic 
chorus. Then Amory opened his eyes, half afraid that 
sight would spoil the rich illusion of harmony. 

He sighed eagerly. There at the head of the white 
platoon marched Allenby, the football captain, slim and 
defiant, as if aware that this year the hopes of the col- 
lege rested on him, that his hundred-and-sixty pounds 
were expected to dodge to victory through the heavy 
blue and crimson lines. 

Fascinated, Amory watched each rank of linked arms 
as it came abreast, the faces indistinct above the polo 
shirts, the voices blent in a paean of triumph and then 
the procession passed through shadowy Campbell Arch, 
and the vokes grew fainter as it wound eastward over 
the campus. 

The minutes passed and Amory sat there very quietly. 
He regretted the rule that would forbid freshmen to be 
outdoors after curfew, for he wanted to ramble through 
the shadowy scented lanes, where Witherspoon brooded 
like a dark mother over Whig and Clio, her Attic chil- 


dren, where the black Gothic snake of Little curled down 
to Cwyler and Patton, these in turn flinging the mystery 
out over the placid slope rolling to the lake. 

Princeton of the daytime filtered slowly into his con- 
sciousness West and Reunion, redolent of the sixties, 
Seventy-nine Hall, brick-red and arrogant, Upper and 
Lower Pyne, aristocratic Elizabethan ladies not quite 
content to live among shopkeepers, and, topping all, 
climbing with clear blue aspiration, the great dreaming 
spires of Holder and Cleveland towers. 

From the first he loved Princeton its lazy beauty, 
its half-grasped significance, the wild moonlight revel of 
the rushes, the handsome, prosperous big-game crowds, 
and under it all the air of struggle that pervaded his 
class. From the day when, wild-eyed and exhausted, 
the jerseyed freshmen sat in the gymnasium and elected 
some one from Hill School class president, a Lawrence- 
ville celebrity vice-president, a hockey star from St! 
Paul's secretary, up until the end of sophomore year it 
never ceased, that breathless social system, that wor- 
ship, seldom named, never really admitted, of the bogey 
"Big Man." 

First it was schools, and Amory, alone from St. Regis', 
watched the crowds form and widen and form again; 
St. Paul's, Hill, Pomfret, eating at certain tacitly re- 
served tables in Commons, dressing in their own corners 
of the gymnasium, and drawing unconsciously about 
them a barrier of the slightly less important but socially 
ambitious to protect them from the friendly, rather puz- 
zled high-school element. From the moment he realized 
this Amory resented social barriers as artificial distinc- 
tions mad by the strong to bolster up their weak retain- 
ers and keep out the almost strong. 

Having decided to be one of the gods of the class, he 


reported for freshman football practice, but in the sec- 
ond week, playing quarter-back, already paragraphed in 
corners of the Princetonian, he wrenched his knee seri- 
ously enough to put him out for the rest of the season. 
This forced him to retire and consider the situation. 

11 1 2 Univee" housed a dozen miscellaneous question- 
marks. There were three or four inconspicuous and 
quite startled boys from Lawrenceville, two amateur 
wild men from a New York private school (Kerry Holi- 
day christened them the "plebeian drunks"), a Jewish 
youth, also from New York, and, as compensation for 
Amory, the two Holidays, to whom he took an instant 

The Holidays were rumored twins, but really the 
dark-haired one, Kerry, was a year older than his blond 
brother, Burne. Kerry was tall, with humorous gray 
eyes, and a sudden, attractive smile; he became at once 
the mentor of the house, reaper of ears that grew too 
high, censor of conceit, vendor of rare, satirical humor. 
Amory spread the table of their future friendship with 
all his ideas of what college should and did mean. 
Kerry, not inclined as yet to take things seriously, chided 
him gently for being curious at this inopportune time 
about the intricacies of the social system, but liked him 
and was both interested and amused. 

Burne, fair-haired, silent, and intent, appeared in the 
house only as a busy apparition, gliding in quietly at 
night and off again in the early morning to get up his 
work in the library he was out for the Princetonian, 
competing furiously against forty others for the coveted 
first place. In December he came down with diphtheria, 
and some one else won the competition, but, returning 
to college in February, he dauntlessly went after the 
prize again. Necessarily, Amory's acquaintance with 
him was in the way of three-minute chats, walking to 


and from lectures, so he failed to penetrate Burne's one 
absorbing interest and find what lay beneath it. 

Amory was far from contented. He missed the place 
he had won at St. Regis', the being known and admired, 
yet Princeton stimulated him, and there were many 
things ahead calculated to arouse the Machiavelli latent 
in him, could he but insert a wedge. The upper-class 
clubs, concerning which he had pumped a reluctant 
graduate during the previous summer, excited his curi- 
osity: Ivy, detached and breathlessly aristocratic; Cot- 
tage, an impressive melange of brilliant adventurers and 
well-dressed philanderers; Tiger Inn, broad-shouldered 
and athletic, vitalized by an honest elaboration of prep- 
school standards; Cap and Gown, anti-alcoholic, faintly 
religious and politically powerful; flambuoyant Col- 
onial; literary Quadrangle; and the dozen others, vary- 
ing in age and position. 

Anything which brought an under classman into too 
glaring a light was labelled with the damning brand of 
"running it out." The movies thrived on caustic com- 
ments, but the men who made them were generally run- 
ning it out; talking of clubs was running it out; standing 
for anything very strongly, as, for instance, drinking 
parties or teto tailing, was running it out; in short, being 
personally conspicuous was not tolerated, and the influ- 
ential man was the non-committal man, until at club 
elections in sophomore year every one should be sewed 
up in some bag for the rest of his college career. 

Amory found that writing for the Nassau Literary 
Magazine would get him nothing, but that being on the 
board of the Daily Princetonian would get any one a 
good deal. His vague desire to do immortal acting with 
the English Dramatic Association faded out when he 
found that the most ingenious brains and talents were 
concentrated upon the Triangle Club, a musical comedy 


organization that every year took a great Christmas 
trip. In the meanwhile, feeling strangely alone and 
restless in Commons, with new desires and ambitions 
stirring in his mind, he let the first term go by between 
an envy of the embryo successes and a puzzled fretting 
with Kerry as to why they were not accepted immedi- 
ately among the elite of the class. 

Many afternoons they lounged in the windows of 12 
Univee and watched the class pass to and from Com- 
mons, noting satellites already attaching themselves to 
the more prominent, watching the lonely grind with his 
hurried step and downcast eye, envying the happy se- 
curity of the big school groups. 

"We're the damned middle class, that's what!" he 
complained to Kerry one day as he lay stretched out on 
the sofa, consuming a family of Fatimas with contem- 
plative precision. 

"Well, why not? We came to Princeton so we could 
feel that way toward the small colleges have it on 'em, 
more self-confidence, dress better, cut a swathe " 

"Oh, it isn't that I mind the glittering caste system/' 
admitted Amory. "I like having a bunch of hot cats 
on top, but gosh, Kerry, I've got to be one of them." 

"But just now, Amory, you're only a sweaty bour- 

Amory lay for a moment without speaking. 

"I won't be long," he said finally. "But I hate to 
get anywhere by working for it I'll show the marks, 
don't you know." 

"Honorable scars." Kerry craned his neck suddenly 
at the street. "There's Langueduc, if you want to see 
what he looks like and Humbird just behind." 

Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows. 

"Oh," he said, scrutinizing these worthies, "Humbird 
looks like a knockout, but this Langueduc he's the 


rugged type, isn't he? I distrust that sort All dia- 
monds look big in the rough." 

"Well," said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, 
" you're a literary genius. It's up to you." 

"I wonder" Amory paused "if I could be. I hon- 
estly think so sometimes. That sounds like the devil, 
and I wouldn't say it to anybody except you." 

"Well go ahead. Let your hair grow and write 
poems like this guy D'Invilliers in the Lit." 

Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the 

"Read his latest effort?" 

"Never miss 'em. They're rare." 

Amory glanced through the issue. 

"Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't 


"Listen to this ! My God ! 

"'A serving lady speaks: 

Black velvet trails its folds over the day, 
White tapers, prisoned in their silver frames, 
Wave their thin flames like shadows in the vrini, 
Pia, Pompia, come come away ' 

"Now, what the devil does that mean?" 
"It's a pantry scene." 

"* Her toes are stiffened like a stork's in flight; 
She's laid upon her bed, on the white sheets, 
Her hands pressed on her smooth bust like a saint, 
Bella Cunizza, come into the light!' 

"My gosh, Kerry, what in hell is it all about? I 
swear I don't get him at all, and I'm a literary bird 

"It's pretty tricky," said Kerry, "only you've got 


to think of hearses and stale milk when you read it. 
That isn't as pash as some of them." 

Amory tossed the magazine on the table. 

"Well," he sighed, "I sure am up in the air. I know 
I'm not a regular fellow, yet I loathe anybody else that 
isn't. I can't decide whether to cultivate my mind and 
be a great dramatist, or to thumb my nose at the Golden 
Treasury and be a Princeton slicker." 

"Why decide?" suggested Kerry. "Better drift, like 
me. I'm going to sail into prominence on Burne's coat- 

"I can't drift I want to be interested. I want to 
pull strings, even for somebody else, or be Princetonian 
chairman or Triangle president. I want to be admired, 

"You're thinking too much about yourself." 

Amory sat up at this. 

"No. I'm thinking about you, too. We've got to 
get out and mix around the class right now, when it's 
fun to be a snob. I'd like to bring a sardine to the prom 
in June, for instance, but I wouldn't do it unless I could 
be damn debonaire about it introduce her to all the 
prize parlor-snakes, and the football captain, and all 
that simple stuff." 

"Amory," said Kerry impatiently, "you're just going 
around in a circle. If you want to be prominent, get 
out and try for something; if you don't, just take it 
easy." He yawned. "Come on, let's let the smoke 
drift off. We'll go down and watch football practice." 

Amory gradually accepted this point of view, decided 
that next fall would inaugurate his career, and relin- 
quished himself to watching Kerry extract joy from 
12 Univee. 

They filled the Jewish youth's bed with lemon pie; 


they put out the gas all over the house every night by 
blowing into the jet in Amory's room, to the bewilder-^ 
ment of Mrs. Twelve and the local plumber; they set up 
the effects of the plebeian drunks pictures, books, and 
furniture in the bathroom, to the confusion of the pair, 
who hazily discovered the transposition on their return 
from a Trenton spree; they were disappointed beyond 
measure when the plebeian drunks decided to take it as 
a joke; they played red-dog and twenty-one and jack- 
pot from cQiiner to dawn, and on the occasion of one 
man's birthday persuaded htm to buy sufficient cham- 
pagne for a hilarious celebration. The donor of the 
party having remained sober, Kerry and Amory acci- 
dentiy dropped him down two flights of stairs and 
called, shame-faced and penitent, at the infirmary all 
the following week. 

"Say, who are all these women?" demanded Kerry 
one day, protesting at the size of Amory's mail. "I've 
been looking at the postmarks lately Farmington and 
Dobbs and Westover and Dana Hall what's the idea? " 

Amory grinned. 

"All from the Twin Cities." He named them off. 
"There's Marylyn De Witt she's pretty, got a car of 
her own and that's damn convenient; there's Sally 
Weatherby she's getting too fat; there's Myra St. 
Cla^e, she's an old flame, easy to kiss if you like 

"What line do you throw 'em?" demanded Kerry. 
"I've tried everything, and the mad wags aren't even 
afraid of me." 

"You're the 'nice boy* type," suggested Amory. 

"That's just it. Mother always feels the girl is safe 
if she's with me. Honestly, it's annoying. If I start 
to hold somebody's hand, they laugh at me, and let me, 
just as if it wasn't part of them. As soon as I get hold 


of a hand they sort of disconnect it from the rest of 

"Sulk," suggested Amory. "Tell 'em you're wild 
and have 'em reform you go home furious come back 
in half an hour startle 'em." 

Kerry shook his head. 

"No chance. I wrote a St. Timothy girl a really 
loving letter last year. In one place I got rattled and 
said: 'My God, how I love you !' She took a nail scis- 
sors, clipped out the 'My God' and showed the rest of 
the letter all over school. Doesn't work at all. I'm 
just 'good old Kerry' and all that rot." 

Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as "good 
old Amory." He failed completely. 

February dripped snow and rain, the cyclonic fresh- 
man mid-years passed, and life in 12 Univee con- 
tinued interesting if not purposeful. Once a day Amory 
indulged in a club sandwich, cornflakes, and Julienne 
potatoes at "Joe's," accompawed usually by Kerry or 
Alec Connage. The latter was a quiet, rather aloof 
slicker from Hotchkiss, who lived next door and shared 
the same enforced singleness as Amory, due to the fact 
that his entire class had gone to Yale. "Joe's" was 
unaesthetic and faintly unsanitary, but a limitless charge 
account could be opened there, a convenience that 
Amory appreciated. His father had been experin nt- 
ing with mining stocks and, in consequence, his allow- 
ance, while liberal, was not at all what he had expected. 

"Joe's" had the additional advantage of seclusion 
from curious upper-class eyes, so at four each afternoon 
Amory, accompanied by friend or book, went up to 
experiment with his digestion. One day in March, find- 
ing that all the tables were occupied, he slipped into a 
chair opposite a freshman who bent intently over a 
book at the last table. They nodded briefly. For 


twenty minutes Amory sat consuming bacon buns and 
reading "Mrs. Warren's Profession" (he had discovered 
Shaw quite by accident whfle browsing in the library 
during mid-years); the other freshman, also intent on 
his volume, meanwhile did away with a trio of choco- 
late malted milks. 

By and by Amory's eyes wandered curiously to his 
fellow-luncher's book. He spelled out the name and 
title upside down "Marpessa," by Stephen Phillips. 
This meant nothing to him, his metrical education hav- 
ing been confined to such Sunday classics as " Come into 
the Garden, Maude," and what morsels of Shakespeare 
and Milton had been recently forced upon him. 

Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest 
in his book for a moment, and then exclaimed aloud as 
if involuntarily: 

"Ha! Great stuff!" 

The other freshman looked up and Amory registered 
artificial embarrassment. 

"Are you referring to your bacon buns?" His 
cracked, kindly voice went well with the large spectacles 
and the impression of a voluminous keenness that he 

" No," Amory answered. " I was referring to B ernard 
Shaw." He turned the book around in explanation. 

"I've never read any Shaw. I've always meant to." 
The boy paused and then continued: "Did you ever read 
Stephen Phillips, or do you like poetry?" 

"Yes, indeed," Amory affirmed eagerly. "I've never 
read much of Phillips, though." (He had never heard 
of any Phillips except the late David Graham.) 

" It's pretty fair, I think. Of course he's a Victorian." 
They sallied into a discussion of poetry, in the course of 
which they introduced themselves, and Amory's com- 
panion proved to be none other than " that awful high- 


brow, Thomas Parke DTnvilliers," who signed the pas- 
sionate love-poems in the Lit. He was, perhaps, nine- 
teen, with stooped shoulders, pale blue eyes, and, as 
Amory could tell from his general appearance, without 
much conception of social competition and such phe- 
nomena of absorbing interest. Still, he liked books, and 
it seemed forever since Amory had met any one who 
did; if only that St. Paul's crowd at the next table would 
not mistake him for a bird, too, he would enjoy the 
encounter tremendously. They didn't seem to be notic- 
ing, so he let himself go, discussed books by the dozens 
books he had read, read about, books he had never 
heard of, rattling off lists of titles with the facility of a 
Brentano's clerk. D'Invilliers was partially taken in 
and wholly delighted. In a good-natured way he had 
almost decided that Princeton was one part deadly Phi- 
listines and one part deadly grinds, and to find a person 
who could mention Keats without stammering, yet evi- 
dently washed his hands, was rather a treat. 

"Ever read any Oscar Wilde?" he asked. 

"No. Who wrote it?" 

"It's a man don't you know?" 

"Oh, surely." A faint chord was struck in Amory's 
memory. "Wasn't the comic opera, 'Patience,' written 
about him?" 

"Yes, that's the fella. I've just finished a book of 
his, 'The Picture of Dorian Gray,' and I certainly wish 
you'd read it. You'd like it You can borrow it if you 
want to." 

"Why, I'd like it a lot thanks." 

"Don't you want to come up to the room? I've got 
a few other books." 

Amory hesitated, glanced at the St. Paul's group 
one of them was the magnificent, exquisite Humbird 
and he considered how determinate the addition of this 


friend would be. He never got to the stage of making 
them and getting rid of them he was not hard enough 
for that so he measured Thomas Parke D'Invilliers' 
undoubted attractions and value against the menace of 
cold eyes behind tortoise-rimmed spectacles that he fan- 
cied glared from the next table. 

"Yes, I'll go." 

So he found "Dorian Gray" and the "Mystic and 
Somber Dolores" and the "Belle Dame sans Merci"; for 
a month was keen on naught else. The world became 
pale and interesting, and he tried hard to look at Prince- 
ton through the satiated eyes of Oscar Wilde and Swin- 
burneor "Fingal O'Flaherty " and "Algernon Charles," 
as he called them in precieuse jest. He read enormously 
every night Shaw, Chesterton, Barrie, Pinero, Yeats, 
Synge, Ernest Dowson, Arthur Symons, Keats, Suder- 
mann, Robert Hugh Benson, the Savoy Operas just a 
heterogeneous mixture, for he suddenly discovered that 
he had read nothing for years. 

Tom DTnvilliers became at first an occasion rather 
than a friend. Amory saw him about once a week, and 
together they gilded the ceiling of Tom's room and deco- 
rated the walls with imitation tapestry, bought at an 
auction, tall candlesticks and figured curtains. Amory 
liked him for being clever and literary without effemi- 
nacy or affectation. In fact, Amory did most of the 
strutting and tried painfully to make every remark an 
epigram, than which, if one is content with ostensible 
epigrams, there are many feats harder. 12 Univee was 
amused. Kerry read "Dorian Gray" and simulated 
Lord Henry, following Amory about, addressing him 
as "Dorian" and pretending to encourage in him 
wicked fancies and attenuated tendencies to ennui. 
When he carried it into commons, to the amazement 
of the others at table, Amory became furiously embar' 


rassed, and after that made epigrams only before D'ln- 
villiers or a convenient mirror. 

One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and 
Lord Dunsany's poems to the music of Kerry's grapho- 

" Chant ! " cried Tom. "Don't recite ! Chant I " 

Amory, who was performing, looked annoyed, and 
claimed that he needed a record with less piano in it. 
Kerry thereupon rolled on the floor in stifled laughter. 

"Put on 'Hearts and Flowers'!" he howled. "Oh, 
my Lord, I'm going to cast a kitten." 

"Shut off the damn graphophone," Amory cried, 
rather red in the face. "I'm not giving an exhibition." 

In the meanwhile Amory delicately kept trying to 
awaken a sense of the social system in D'Invilliers, for 
he knew that this poet was really more conventional 
than he, and needed merely watered hair, a smaller range 
of conversation, and a darker brown hat to become oolite 
regular. But the liturgy of Livingstone collars and 
dark ties fell on heedless ears; in fact D'lnvilliers faintly 
resented his efforts; so Amory confined himself to calls 
once a week, and brought him occasionally to 12 Uni- 
vee. This caused mfld titters among the other fresh- 
men, who called them "Doctor Johnson and Boswell." 

Alec Connage, another frequent visitor, liked him in 
a vague way, but was afraid of h"n as a highbrow. 
Kerry, who saw through his poetic patter to the solid, 
almost respectable depths within, was immensely 
amused and would have him recite poetry by the hour, 
while he lay with closed eyes on Amory's sofa and lis- 

" Asleep or waking is it? for her neck 
Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck 
Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out ; 
Soft and stung softly fairer for a fleck ..." 


"That's good," Kerry would say softly. "It pleases 
the elder Holiday. That's a great poet, I guess." Tom, 
delighted at an audience, would ramble through the 
"Poems and Ballades" until Kerry and Amory knew 
them almost as well as he. 

Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, 
in the gardens of the big estates near Princeton, while 
swans made effective atmosphere in the artificial pools, 
and slow clouds sailed harmoniously above the willows. 
May came too soon, and suddenly unable to bear walls, 
he wandered the campus at all hours through starlight 
and rain. 


The night mist fell. From the moon it rolled, clus- 
tered about the spires and towers, and then settled 
below them, so that the dreaming peaks were still in 
lofty aspiration toward the sky. Figures that dotted 
the day like ants now brushed along as shadowy ghosts, 
in and out of the foreground. The Gothic halls and 
cloisters were infinitely more mysterious as they loomed 
suddenly out of the darkness, outlined each by myriad 
faint squares of yellow light. Indefinitely from some- 
where a bell boomed the quarter-hour, and Amory, 
pausing by the sun-dial, stretched himself out full length 
on the damp grass. The cool bathed his eyes and 
slowed the flight of time time that had crept so insidi- 
ously through the lazy April afternoons, seemed so in- 
tangible in the long spring twilights. Evening after 
evening the senior singing had drifted over the campus 
in melancholy beauty, and through the shell of his 
undergraduate consciousness had broken a deep and 
reverent devotion to the gray walls and Gothic peaks 
and all they symbolized as warehouses of dead ages. 

The tower that in view of his window sprang upward, 


grew into a spire, yearning higher until its uppermost 
tip was half invisible against the morning skies, gave 
him the first sense of the transiency and unimportance 
of the campus figures except as holders of the apostolic 
succession. He liked knowing that Gothic architecture, 
with its upward trend, was peculiarly appropriate to 
universities, and the idea became personal to him. The 
silent stretches of green, the quiet halls with an occa- 
sional late-burning scholastic light held his imagination 
in a strong grasp, and the chastity of the spire became 
a symbol of this perception. 

"Damn it all," he whispered aloud, wetting his hands 
in the damp and running them through his hair. "Next 
year I work !" Yet he knew that where now the spirit 
of spires and towers made him dreamily acquiescent, it 
would then overawe him. Where now he realized only 
his own inconsequence, effort would make him aware 
of his own impotency and insufficiency. 

The college dreamed on awake. He felt a nervous 
excitement that might have been the very throb of its 
slow heart. It was a stream where he was to throw a 
stone whose faint ripple would be vanishing almost as 
it left his hand. As yet he had given nothing, he had 
taken nothing. 

A belated freshman, his oilskin slicker rasping loudly, 
slushed along the soft path. A voice from somewhere 
called the inevitable formula, "Stick out your head!" 
below an unseen window. A hundred little sounds of 
the current drifting on under the fog pressed in finally 
on his consciousness. 

"Oh, God!" he cried suddenly, and started at the 
sound of his voice in the stillness. The rain dripped 
on. A minute longer he lay without moving, his hands 
clinched. Then he sprang to his feet and gave his 
clothes a tentative pat. 


"I'm very damn wet!" he said aloud to the sun- 


The war began in the summer following his freshman 
year. Beyond a sporting interest in the German dash 
for Paris the whole affair failed either to thrill or interest 
him. With the attitude he might have held toward an 
'amusing melodrama he hoped it would be long and 
bloody. If it had not continued he would have felt like 
an irate ticket-holder at a prize-fight where the princi- 
pals refused to mix it up. 

That was his total reaction. 


"All right, ponies/" 

"Shake it up!" 

"Hey, ponies how about easing up on that crap 
game and shaking a mean hip?" 

"Hey, ponies/" 

The coach fumed helplessly, the Triangle Club presi- 
dent, glowering with anxiety, varied between furious 
bursts of authority and fits of temperamental lassitude, 
when he sat spiritless and wondered how the devil the 
show was ever going on tour by Christmas. 

"All right. We'll take the pirate song." 

The ponies took last drags at their cigarettes and 
slumped into place; the leading lady rushed into the 
foreground, setting his hands and feet in an atmospheric 
mince; and as the coach clapped and stamped and 
tumped and da-da'd, they hashed out a dance. 

A great, seething ant-hill was the Triangle Club. It 
gave a musical comedy every year, travelling with cast, 
chorus, orchestra, and scenery all through Christmas 


vacation. The play and music were the work of under- 
graduates, and the club itself was the most influential of 
institutions, over three hundred men competing for it 
every year. 

Amory, after an easy victory in the first sopho- 
more Princetonian competition, stepped into a vacancy 
of the cast as Boiling Oil, a Pirate Lieutenant. Every 
night for the last week they had rehearsed "Ha-Ha 
Hortense!" in the Casino, from two in the afternoon 
until eight in the morning, sustained by dark and pow- 
erful coffee, and sleeping in lectures through the interim. 
A rare scene, the Casino. A big, barnlike auditorium, 
dotted with boys as girls, boys as pirates, boys as babies; 
the scenery in course of being violently set up; the spot- 
light man rehearsing by throwing weird shafts into 
angry eyes; over all the constant tuning of the orchestra 
or the cheerful tumpty-tump of a Triangle tune. The 
boy who writes the lyrics stands in the corner, biting a 
pencil, with twenty minutes to think of an encore; the 
business manager argues with the secretary as to how 
much money can be spent on "those damn milkmaid 
costumes"; the old graduate, president in ninety-eight, 
perches on a box and thinks how much simpler it was 
in his day. 

How a Triangle show ever got off was a mystery, but 
it was a riotous mystery, anyway, whether or not one 
did enough service to wear a little gold Triangle on his 
watch-chain. "Ha-Ha Hortense !" was written over six 
times and had the names of nine collaborators on the 
programme. All Triangle shows started by being 
"something different not just a regular musical com- 
edy," but when the several authors, the president, the 
coach and the faculty committee finished with it, there 
remained just the old reliable Triangle show with the 
old reliable jokes and the star comedian who got ex- 


pelled or sick or something just before the trip, and the 
dark- whiskered man in the pony-ballet, who " absolutely 
won't shave twice a day, dog-gone it ! " 

There was one brilliant place in "Ha-Ha Hortense!" 
It is a Princeton tradition that whenever a Yale man 
who is a member of the widely advertised "Skull and 
Bones" hears the sacred name mentioned, he must leave 
the room. It is also a tradition that the members are 
invariably successful in later life, amassing fortunes or 
votes or coupons or whatever they choose to amass. 
Therefore, at each performance of "Ha-Ha Hortense!" 
half-a-dozen seats were kept from sale and occupied by 
six of the worst-looking vagabonds that could be hired 
from the streets, further touched up by the Triangle 
make-up man. At the moment in the show where 
Firebrand, the Pirate ChieJ, pointed at his black flag and 
said, "I am a Yale graduate note my Skull and Bones ! " 
at this very moment the six vagabonds were instructed 
to rise conspicuously and leave the theatre with looks of 
deep melancholy and an injured dignity. It was claimed 
though never proved that on one occasion the hired 
Elis were swelled by one of the real thing. 

They played through vacation to the fashionable of 
eight cities. Amory liked Louisville and Memphis best: 
these knew how to meet strangers, furnished extraordi- 
nary punch, and flaunted an astonishing array of femi- 
nine beauty. Chicago he approved for a certain verve 
that transcended its loud accent however, it was a 
Yale town, and as the Yale Glee Club was expected 
in a week the Triangle received only divided homage. 
In Baltimore, Princeton was at home, and every one fell 
in love. There was a proper consumption of strong 
waters all along the line; one man invariably went on 
the stage iiighly stimulated, claiming that his particular 
interpretation of the part required it. There were three 


private cars; however, no one slept except in the third 
car, which was called the "animal car," and where were 
herded the spectacled wind-jammers of the orchestra. 
Everything was so hurried that there was no time to be 
bored, but when they arrived in Philadelphia, with vaca- 
tion nearly over, there was rest in getting out of the 
heavy atmosphere of flowers and grease-paint, and the 
ponies took off their corsets with abdominal pains and 
sighs of relief. 

When the disbanding came, Amory set out post- 
haste for Minneapolis, for Sally Weatherby's cousin, 
Isabelle Borge, was coming to spend the winter in Min- 
neapolis while her parents went abroad. He remem- 
bered Isabelle only as a little girl with whom he had 
played sometimes when he first went to Minneapolis. 
She had gone to Baltimore to live but since then she 
had developed a past 

Amory was in full stride, confident, nervous, and 
jubilant. Scurrying back to Minneapolis to see a girl 
he had known as a child seemed the interesting and 
romantic thing to do, so without compunction he wired 
his mother not to expect him . . . sat in the train, and 
thought about himself for thirty-six hours. 


On the Triangle trip Amory had come into constant 
contact with that great current American phenomenon, 
the "petting party." 

None of the Victorian mothers and most of the 
mothers were Victorian had any idea how casually 
their daughters were accustomed to be kissed. "Servant- 
girls are that way," says Mrs. Huston-Carmelite to her 
popular daughter. "They are kissed first and proposed 
to afterward." 


But the Popular Daughter becomes engaged every 
six months between sixteen and twenty-two, when she 
arranges a match with young Hambell, of Cambell & 
Hambell, who fatuously considers himself her first love, 
and between engagements the P. D. (she is selected by 
the cut-in system at dances, which favors the survival 
of the fittest) has other sentimental last kisses in the 
moonlight, or the firelight, or the outer darkness. 

Amory saw girls doing things that even in his mem- 
ory would have been impossible: eating three-o'clock, 
after-dance suppers in impossible cafes, talking of every 
side of life with an air half of earnestness, half of mock- 
ery, yet with a furtive excitement that Amory consid- 
ered stood for a real moral let-down. But he never 
realized how wide-spread it was until he saw the cities 
between New York and Chicago as one vast juvenile 

Afternoon at the Plaza, with winter twilight hovering 
outside and faint drums down-stairs . . . they strut and 
fret in the lobby, taking another cocktail, scrupulously 
attired and waiting. Then the swinging doors revolve 
and three bundles of fur mince in. The theatre comes 
afterward; then a table at the Midnight Frolic of 
course, mother will be along there, but she will serve 
only to make things more secretive and brilliant as she 
sits in solitary state at the deserted table and thinks 
such entertainments as this are not half so bad as they 
are painted, only rather wearying. But the P. D. is in 
love again ... it was odd, wasn't it? that though 
there was so much room left in the taxi the P. D. and 
the boy from Williams were somehow crowded out and 
had to go in a separate car. Odd ! Didn't you notice 
how flushed the P. D. was when she arrived just seven 
minutes late? But the P. D. "gets away with it." 

The "belle" had become the "flirt," the "flirt" had 


become the "baby vamp." The "belle" had five or 
six callers every afternoon. If the P. D., by some 
strange accident, has two, it is made pretty uncomfort- 
able for the one who hasn't a date with her. The 
"belle" was surrounded by a dozen men in the in- 
termissions between dances. Try to find the P. D. 
between dances, just try to find her. 

The same girl . . . deep in an atmosphere of jungle 
music and the questioning of moral codes. Amory found 
it rather fascinating to feel that any popular girl he met 
before eight he might quite possibly kiss before twelve. 

"Why on earth are we here?" he asked the girl with 
the green combs one night as they sat in some one's 
limousine, outside the Country Club in Louisville. 

"I don't know. I'm just full of the devil." 

"Let's be frank we'll never see each other again. 
I wanted to come out here with you because I thought 
you were the best-looking girl in sight. You really 
don't care whether you ever see me again, do you?" 

"No but is this your line for every girl? What 
have I done to deserve it? " 

"And you didn't feel tired dancing or want a cigarette 
or any of the things you said? You just wanted to 

"Oh, let's go in," she interrupted, "if you want to 
analyze. Let's not talk about it." 

When the hand-knit, sleeveless jerseys were stylish, 
Amory, in a burst of inspiration, named them "petting 
shirts." The name travelled from coast to coast on the 
lips of parlor-snakes and P. D.'s. 


Amory was now eighteen years old, just under six 
feet tall and exceptionally, but not conventionally, 


handsome. He had rather a young face, the ingenuous- 
ness of which was marred by the penetrating green eyes, 
fringed with long dark eyelashes. He lacked somehow 
that intense animal magnetism that so often accom- 
panies beauty in men or women; his personality seemed 
rather a mental thing, and it was not in his power to 
turn it on and off like a water-faucet. But people never 
forgot his face. 


She paused at the top of the staircase. The sensa- 
tions attributed to divers on spring-boards, leading 
ladies on opening nights, and lumpy, husky young men 
on the day of the Big Game, crowded through her. She 
should have descended to a burst of drums or a dis- 
cordant blend of themes from "Thais" and " Carmen." 
She had never been so curious about her appearance, 
she had never been so satisfied with it. She had been 
sixteen years old for six months. 

"Isabelle!" called her cousin Sally from the doorway 
of the dressing-room. 

"I'm ready." She caught a slight lump of nervous- 
ness in her throat. 

"I had to send back to the house for another pair of 
slippers. It'll be just a minute." 

Isabelle started toward the dressing-room for a last 
peek in the mirror, but something decided her to stand 
there and gaze down the broad stairs of the Minnehaha 
Club. They curved tantalizingly, and she could catch 
just a glimpse of two pairs of masculine feet in the hall 
below. Pump-shod in uniform black, they gave no hint 
of identity, but she wondered eagerly if one pair were 
attached to Amory Elaine. This .young man, not as 
yet encountered, had nevertheless taken up a consider- 
able part of her day the first day of her arrival. Com- 


ing up in the machine from the station, Sally had volun- 
teered, amid a rain of question, comment, revelation, 
and exaggeration: 

"You remember Amory Elaine, of course. Well, he's 
simply mad to see you again. He's stayed over a day 
from college, and he's coming to-night. He's heard so 
much about you says he remembers your eyes." 

This had pleased Isabelle. It put them on equal 
terms, although she was quite capable of staging her 
own romances, with or without advance advertising. 
But following her happy tremble of anticipation, came 
a sinking sensation that made her ask: 

"How do you mean he's heard about me? What 
sort of things?" 

Sally smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a 
showman with her more exotic cousin. 

"He knows you're you're considered beautiful and 
all that" she paused "and I guess he knows you've 
been kissed." 

At this Isabelle's tfttle fist had clinched suddenly 
under the fur robe. She was accustomed to be thus fol- 
lowed by her desperate past, and it never failed to rouse 
in her the same feeling of resentment; yet in a strange 
town it was an advantageous reputation. She was a 
"Speed," was she? Well let them find out. 

Out of the window Isabelle watched the snow glide 
by irf the frosty morning. It was ever so much colder 
here than in Baltimore; she had not remembered; the 
glass of the side door was iced, the windows were shirred 
with snow in the corners. Her mind played still with 
one subject. Did he dress like that boy there, who 
walked calmly down a bustling business street, in moc- 
casins and winter-carnival costume? How very West- 
ern ! Of course he wasn't that way: he went to Prince- 
ton, was a sophomore or. something. Really she had no 


distinct idea of him. An ancient snap-shot she had pre- 
served in an old kodak book had impressed her by the 
big eyes (which he had probably grown up to by now). 
However, in the last month, when her winter visit to 
Sally had been decided on, he had assumed the pro- 
portions of a worthy adversary. Children, most astute 
of match-makers, plot thek campaigns quickly, and Sally 
had played a clever correspondence sonata to Isabelle's 
excitable temperament. Isabelle had been for some 
time capable of very strong, if very transient emo- 
tions. . . . 

They drew up at a spreading, white-stone building, 
set back from the snowy street. Mrs. Weatherby 
greeted her warmly and her various younger cousins 
were produced from the corners where they skulked 
.politely. Isabelle met them tactfully. At her best she 
allied all with whom she came in contact except older 
girls and some women. All the impressions she made 
were conscious. The half-dozen girls she renewed ac- 
quaintance with that morning were all rather impressed 
and as much by her direct personality as by her reputa- 
tion. Amory Elaine was an open subject. Evidently 
a bit light of love, neither popular nor unpopular every 
girl there seemed to have had an affair with him at 
some time or other, but no one volunteered any really 
useful information. He was going to fall for her. . . . 
Sally had published that information to her young set 
and they were retailing it back to Sally as fast as they 
set eyes on Isabelle. Isabelle resolved secretly that she 
would, if necessary, force herself to like him she owed 
it to Sally. Suppose she were terribly disappointed. 
Sally had painted him in such glowing colors he was 
good-looking, "sort of distinguished, when he wants t 
be," had a line, and was properly inconstant. In fact, 
he summed up all the romance that her age and environ- 


ment led her to desire. She wondered if those were 
his dancing-shoes that fox-trotted tentatively around 
the soft rug below. 

All impressions and, in fact, all ideas were extremely 
kaleidoscopic to Isabelle. She had that curious mixture 
of the social and the artistic temperaments found often 
in two classes, society women and actresses. Her edu- 
cation or, rather, her sophistication, had been absorbed 
from the boys who had dangled on her favor; her tact 
was instinctive, and her capacity for love-affairs was 
limited only by the number of the susceptible within 
telephone distance. Flirt smiled from her large black- 
brown eyes and shone through her intense physical 

So she waited at the head of the stairs that evening 
while slippers were fetched. Just as she was growing 
impatient, Sally came out of the dressing-room, beaming 
with her accustomed good nature and high spirits, and 
together they descended to the floor below, while the 
shifting search-light of Isabelle's mind flashed on two 
ideas: she was glad she had high color to-night, and 
she wondered if he danced well. 

Down-stairs, in the dub's great room, she was sur- 
rounded for a moment by the girls she had met in the 
afternoon, then she heard Sally's voice repeating a 
cycle of names, and found herself bowing to a sextet of 
black and white, terribly stiff, vaguely familiar figures. 
The name Elaine figured somewhere, but at first she 
could not place him. A very confused, very juvenile 
moment of awkward backings and bumpings followed, 
and every one found himself talking to the person he 
least desired to. Isabelle manoeuvred herself and 
Froggy Parker, freshman at Harvard, with whom she 
had once played hop-scotch, to a seat on the stairs. A 
humorous reference to the past was all she needed. The 


things Isabeile could do socially with one idea were 
remarkable. First, she repeated it rapturously in an 
enthusiastic contralto with a soupjon of Southern accent; 
then she held it off at a distance and smiled at it her 
wonderful smile; then she delivered it in variations and 
played a sort of mental catch with it, all this in the 
nominal form of dialogue. Froggy was fascinated and 
quite unconscious that this was being done, not for him, 
but for the green eyes that glistened under the shining 
carefully watered hair, a little to her left, for Isabeile 
had discovered Amory. As an actress even in the full- 
est flush of her own conscious magnetism gets a deep 
impression of most of the people in the front row, so 
Isabeile sized up her antagonist First, he had auburn 
hair, and from her feeling of disappointment she knew 
that she had expected him to be dark and of garter- 
advertisement slenderness. . . . For the rest, a faint 
flush and a straight, romantic profile; the effect set off 
by a close-fitting dress suit and a silk ruffled shirt of the 
kind that women still delight to see men wear, but men 
were just beginning to get tired of. 

During this inspection Amory was quietly watch- 

"Don't you think so?" she said suddenly, turning to 
him, innocent-eyed. 

There was a stir, and Sally led the way over to their ; 
table. Amory struggled to Isabelle's side, and whis- , 

"You're my dinner partner, you know. We're all 
coached for each other." 

Isabeile gasped this was rather right in line. But 
really she felt as if a good speech had been taken from 
the star and given to a minor character. . . . She 
mustn't lose the leadership a bit. The dinner- table 
glittered with laughter at the confusion of getting places, 


and then curious eyes were turned on her, sitting near the 
head. She was enjoying this immensely, and Froggy 
Parker was so engrossed with the added sparkle of her 
rising color that he forgot to pull out Sally's chair, and 
fell into a dim confusion. Amory was on the other 
side, full of confidence and vanity, gazing at her in open 
admiration. He began directly, and so did Froggy: 

"I've heard a lot about you since you wore braids 

"Wasn't it funny this afternoon " 

Both stopped. Isabelle turned to Amory shyly. Her 
face was always enough answer for any one, but she 
decided to speak. 

"How from whom ? " 

"From everybody for all the years since you've been 
away." She blushed appropriately. On her right Frog- 
gy was hors de combat already, although he hadn't 
quite realized it. 

"I'll tell you what I remembered about you all these 
years," Amory continued. She leaned slightly toward 
him and looked modestly at the celery before her. 
Froggy sighed he knew Amory, and the situations that 
Amory seemed born to handle. He turned to Sally and 
asked her if she was going away to school next year. 
Amory opened with grape-shot. 

"I've got an adjective that just fits you." This was 
one of his favorite starts he seldom had a word in 
mind, but it was a curiosity provoker, and he could 
always produce something complimentary if he got in a 
tight corner. 

"Oh what?" Isabelle's face was a study in enrap- 
tured curiosity. 

Amory shook his head. 

"I don't know you very well yet." 

"Will you tell me afterward?" she half whispered. 

He nodded. 


"We'll sit out" 

Isabella nodded. 

"Did any one ever tell you, you have keen eyes? " she 

Amory attempted to make them look even keener. 
He fancied, but he was not sure, that her foot had just 
touched his under the table. But it might possibly have 
been only the table leg. It was so hard to tell. Still it 
thrilled him. He wondered quickly if there would be 
any difficulty in securing the little den up-stairs. 


Isabelle and Amory were distinctly not innocent, nor 
were they particularly brazen. Moreover, amateur 
standing had very little value in the game they were 
playing, a game that would presumably be her principal 
study for years to come. She had begun as he had, 
with good looks and an excitable temperament, and the 
rest was the result of accessible popular novels and 
dressing-room conversation culled from a slightly older 
set. Isabelle had walked with an artificial gait at nine 
and a half, and when her eyes, wide and starry, pro- 
claimed the ingenue most. Amory was proportionately 
less deceived. He waited for the mask to drop off, but 
at the same time he did not question her right to wear 
it. She, on her part, was not impressed by his studied 
air of blase sophistication. She had lived in a larger 
city and had slightly an advantage in range. But she 
accepted his pose it was one of the dozen little conven- 
tions of this kind of affair. He was aware that he was 
getting this particular favor now because she had been 
coached; he knew that he stood for merely the best 
game in sight, and that he would have to improve his 
opportunity before he lost his advantage. So they pro 1 


ceeded with an infinite guile that would have horrified 
her parents. 

After the dinner the dance began . . . smoothly. 
Smoothly? boys cut in on Isabelle every few feet and 
then squabbled in the corners with: "You might let me 
get more than an inch ! " and " She didn't like it either 
she told me so next time I cut in." It was true she 
told every one so, and gave every hand a parting pres- 
sure that said: "You know that your dances are making 
my evening." 

But time passed, two nours of it, and the less subtle 
beaux had better learned to focus their pseudo-passionate 
glances elsewhere, for eleven o'clock found Isabelle and 
Amory sitting on the couch in the little den off the 
reading-room up-stairs. She was conscious that they 
were a handsome pair, and seemed to belong distinctively 
in this seclusion, while lesser lights fluttered and chat- 
tered down-stairs. 

Boys who passed the door looked in enviously girls 
who passed only laughed and frowned and grew wise 
within themselves. 

They had now reached a very definite stage. They 
had traded accounts of their progress since they had 
met last, and she had listened to much she had heard 
before. He was a sophomore, was on the Princetonian 
board, hoped to be chairman in senior year. He learned 
that some of the boys she went with in Baltimore were 
"terrible speeds" and came to dances in states of arti- 
ficial stimulation; -most of them were twenty or so, and 
drove alluring red Stutzes. A good half seemed to have 
already flunked out of various schools and colleges, but 
some of them bore athletic names that made him look 
at her admiringly. As a matter of fact, Isabelle's closer 
acquaintance with the universities was just commencing. 
She had bowing acquaintance with a lot of young men 


who thought she was a "pretty kid worth keeping an 
eye on." But Isabelle strung the names into a fabrica- 
tion of gayety that would have dazzled a Viennese noble- 
man. Such is the power of young contralto voices on 
sink-down sofas. 

He asked her if she thought he was conceited. She 
said there was a difference between conceit and self- 
confidence. She adored self-confidence in men. 

"Is Froggy a good friend of yours?" she asked. 

"Rather why?" 

"He's a bum dancer." 

Amory laughed. 

"He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of 
in his arms." 

She appreciated this. 

"You're awfully good at sizing people up." 

Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up 
several people for her. Then they talked about hands. 

"You've got awfully nice hands," she said. "They 
look as if you played the piano. Do you?" 

I have said they had reached a very definite stage 
nay, more, a very critical stage. Amory had stayed over 
a day to see her, and his train left at twelve-eighteen that 
night. His trunk and suitcase awaited him at the station; 
his watch was beginning to hang heavy in his pocket. 

"Isabelle," he said suddenly, "I want to tell you 
something." They had been talking lightly about " that 
funny look in her eyes," and Isabelle knew from the 
change in his manner what was coming indeed, she 
had been wondering how soon it would come. Amory 
reached above their heads and turned out the electric 
light, so that they were in the dark, except for the red 
glow that fell through the door from the reading-room 
lamps. Then he began: 

"I don't know whether or not you know what you 


what I'm going to say. Lordy, Isabelle this sounds 
like a line, but it isn't." 

"I know," said Isabelle softly. 

"Maybe we'll never meet again like this I have 
darned hard luck sometimes." He was leaning away 
from her on the other arm of the lounge, but she could 
see his eyes plainly in the dark. 

"You'll meet me again silly." There was just the 
slightest emphasis on the last word so that it became 
almost a term of endearment. He continued a bit hus- 

"I've fallen for a lot of people girls and I guess 
you have, too boys, I mean, but, honestly, you " he 
broke off suddenly and leaned forward, chin on his 
hands: "Oh, what's the use you'll go your way and I 
suppose I'll go mine." 

Silence for a moment. Isabelle was quite stirred; she 
wound her handkerchief into a tight ball, and by the 
faint light that streamed over her, dropped it delib- 
erately on the floor. Their hands touched for an in- 
stant, but neither spoke. Silences were becoming more 
frequent and more delicious. Outside another stray 
couple had come up and were experimenting on the 
piano in the next room. After the usual preliminary of 
"chopsticks," one of them started "Babes in the Woods" 
and a light tenor carried the words into the den: 

"Give me your hand 
/'// understand 
We're off to slumberland." 

Isabelle hummed it softly and trembled as she felt 
Amory's hand close over hers. 

"Isabelle," he whispered. "You know I'm mad about 
you. You do give a darn about me." 



"How much do you care do you like any one better ? " 

"No." He could scarcely hear her, although he 
bent so near that he felt her breath against his cheek. 

"Isabelle, I'm going back to college for six long 
months, and why shouldn't we if I could only just 
have one thing to remember you by " 

"Close the door. . . ." Her voice had just stirred so 
that he half wondered whether she had spoken at all. 
As he swung the door softly shut, the music seemed 
quivering just outside. 

"Moonlight is bright, 
Kiss me good night" 

What a wonderful song, she thought everything was 
wonderful to-night, most of all this romantic scene in 
the den, with their hands clinging and the inevitable 
looming charmingly close. The future vkta of her life 
seemed an unending succession of scenes like this: under 
moonlight and pale starlight, and in the backs of warm 
limousines and in low, cosey roadsters stopped under 
sheltering trees only the boy might change, and this 
one was so nice. He took her hand softly. With a 
sudden movement he turned it and, holding it to his 
lips, kissed the palm. 

"Isabelle!" His whisper blended in the music, and 
they seemed to float nearer together. Her breath came 
faster. "Can't I kiss you, Isabelle Isabelle?" Lips 
half parted, she turned her head to him in the dark. 
Suddenly the ring of voices, the sound of running foot- 
steps surged toward them. Quick as a flash Amory 
reached up and turned on the light, and when the door 
opened and three boys, the wrathy and dance-craving 
Froggy among them, rushed in, he was turning over the 
magazines on the table, while she sat without moving, 
serene and unembarrassed, and even greeted them with 


a welcoming smile. But her heart was beating wildly, 
and she felt somehow as if she had been deprived. 

It was evidently over. There was a clamor for a 
dance, there was a glance that passed between them 
on his side despair, on hers regret, and then the evening 
went on, with the reassured beaux and the eternal cut- 
ting in. 

At quarter to twelve Amory shook hands with her 
gravely, in the midst of a small crowd assembled to 
wish him good-speed. For an instant he lost his poise, 
and she felt a bit rattled when a satirical voice from 
a concealed wit cried: 

"Take her outside, Amory!" As he took her hand 
he pressed it a little, and she returned the pressure as 
she had done to twenty hands that evening that was 

At two o'clock back at the Weatherbys' Sally asked 
her if she and Amory had had a "time" in the den. 
Isabelle turned to her quietly. In her eyes was the 
light of the idealist, the inviolate dreamer of Joan-like 

"No," she answered. "I don't do that sort of thing 
any more; he asked me to, but I said no." 

As she crept in bed she wondered what he'd say in 
his special delivery to-morrow. He had such a good- 
looking mouth would she ever ? 

"Fourteen angels were watching o'er them," sang 
Sally sleepily from the next room. 

"Damn !" muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into 
a luxurious lump and exploring the cold sheets cautiously. 


Amory, by way of the Princetonian, had arrived. 
The minor snobs, finely balanced thermometers of sue- 


cess, wanned to him as the club elections grew nigh, 
and he and Tom were visited by groups of upper class- 
men who arrived awkwardly, balanced on the edge of 
the furniture and talked of all subjects except the one 
of absorbing interest. Amory was amused at the intent 
eyes upon him, and, in case the visitors represented 
some club in which he was not interested, took great 
pleasure in shocking them with unorthodox remarks. 

"Oh, let me see " he said one night to a flabber- 
gasted delegation, "what club do you represent?" 

With visitors from Ivy and Cottage and Tiger Inn he 
played the "nice, unspoilt, ingenuous boy" very much 
at ease and quite unaware of the object of the call. 

When the fatal morning arrived, early in March, and 
the campus became a document in hysteria, he slid 
smoothly into Cottage with Alec Connage and watched 
his suddenly neurotic class with much wonder. 

There were fickle groups that jumped from club to 
club; there were friends of two or three days who an- 
nounced tearfully and wildly that they must join the 
same club, nothing should separate them; there were 
snarling disclosures of long-hidden grudges as the Sud- 
denly Prominent remembered snubs of freshman year. 
Unknown men were elevated into importance when they 
received certain coveted bids; others who were con- 
sidered "all set" found that they had made unexpected 
enemies, felt themselves stranded and deserted, talked 
wildly of leaving college. 

In his own crowd Amory saw men kept out for wear- 
ing green hats, for being "a damn tailor's dummy," for 
having "too much pull in heaven," for getting drunk 
one night "not like a gentleman, by God," or for un- 
fathomable secret reasons known to no one but the 
wielders of the black balls. 

This orgy of sociability culminated in a gigantic 


party at the Nassau Inn, where punch was dispensed from 
immense bowls, and the whole down-stairs became a de- 
lirious, circulating, shouting pattern of faces and voices. 

"Hi, Dibby 'gratulations ! " 

"Goo* boy, Tom, you got a good bunch in Cap." 

"Say, Kerry " 

"Oh, Kerry I hear you went Tiger with aD the 
weight-lifters ! " 

"Well, I didn't go Cottage the parlor-snakes' de- 

"They say Overton fainted when he got his Ivy bid 
Did he sign up the first day? oh, no. Tore over to 
Murray-Dodge on a bicycle afraid it was a mistake." 

"How'd you get into Cap you old roue?" 


" 'Gratulations yourself. Hear you got a good crowd." 

When the bar closed, the party broke up into gjroups 
and streamed, singing, over the snow-clad campus, in a 
weird delusion that snobbishness and strain were over 
at last, and that they could do what they pleased for 
the next two years. 

Long afterward Amory thought of sophomore spring 
as the happiest time of his life. His ideas were in tune 
with life as he found it; he wanted no more than to drift 
and dream and enjoy a dozen new-found friendships 
through the April afternoons. 

Alec Connage came into his room one morning and 
woke him up into the sunshine and peculiar glory of 
Campbell Hall shining in the window. 

"Wake up, Original Sin, and scrape yourself together. 
Be in front of Renwick's in half an hour. Somebody's 
got a car." He took the bureau cover and carefully 
deposited it, with its load of small articles, upon the bed. 

"Where'd you get the car?" demanded Amory cyni- 


"Sacred trust, but don't be a critical goopher or you 
can't go!" 

"I think I'll sleep," Amory said calmly, resettling 
himself and reaching beside the bed for a cigarette. 


"Why not? I've got a class at eleven- thirty." 

"You damned gloom! Of course, if you don't want 
to go to the coast " 

With a bound Amory was out of bed, scattering the 
bureau cover's burden on the floor. The coast ... he 
hadn't seen it for years, since he and his mother were 
on their pilgrimage. 

"Who's going?" he demanded as he wriggled into 
his B. V. D.'s. 

"Oh, Dick Humbird and Kerry Holiday and Jesse 
Ferrenby and oh about five or six. Speed it up, kid ! " 

In ten minutes Amory was devouring cornflakes in 
Renwick's, and at nine-thirty they bowled happily out 
of town, headed for the sands of Deal Beach. 

"You see," said Kerry, "the car belongs down 
there. In fact, it was stolen from Asbury Park by per- 
sons unknown, who deserted it in Princeton and left 
for the West Heartless Humbird here got permission 
from the city council to deliver it." 

"Anybody got any money?" suggested Ferrenby, 
turning around from the front seat. 

There was an emphatic negative chorus. 

"That makes it interesting." 

"Money what's money? We can sell the car." 

"Charge him salvage or something." 

"How're we going to get food?" asked Amory. 

"Honestly," answered Kerry, eying him reprovingly, 
"do you doubt Kerry's ability for three short days? 
Some people have lived on nothing for years at a time. 
Read the Boy Scout Monthly." 


"Three days," Amory mused, "and I've got classes." 

"One of the days is the Sabbath." 

"Just the same, I can only cut six more classes, with 
over a month and a half to go." 

"Throw him out!" 

"It's a long walk back." 

"Amory, you're running it out, if I may coin a new 

"Hadn't you better get some dope on yourself, 

Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a con- 
templation of the scenery. Swinburne seemed to fit in 

"Oh, winter's rains and ruins are over, 
And all the seasons of snows and sins; 

The days dividing lover and lover, 

The light that loses, the night that wins; 

And time remembered is grief forgotten, 

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, 

And in green underwood and cover, 
Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

" The full streams feed on flower of- 

" What's the matter, Amory? Amory's thinking 
about poetry, about the pretty birds and flowers. I 
can see it in his eye." 

"No, I'm not," he lied. "I'm thinking about the 
Princetonian. I ought to make up to-night; but I can 
telephone back, I suppose." 

"Oh," said Kerry respectfully, "these important 
men " 

Amory flushed and it seemed to him that Ferrenby, a 
defeated competitor, winced a little. Of course, Kerry 
was only kidding, but he really mustn't mention the 


It was a halcyon day, and as they neared the shore 
and the salt breezes scurried by, he began to picture the 
ocean and long, level stretches of sand and red roofs 
over blue sea. Then they hurried through the little 
town and it all flashed upon his consciousness to a 
mighty paean of emotion. . . . 

"Oh, good Lord ! Look at it ! " he cried. 


"Let me out, quick I haven't seen it for eight years ! 
Oh, gentlefolk, stop the car ! " 

"What an odd child!" remarked Alec. 

"I do believe he's a bit eccentric." 

The car was obligingly drawn up at a curb, and Amory 
ran for the boardwalk. First, he realized that the sea 
was blue and that there was an enormous quantity of 
it, and that it roared and roared really all the banali- 
ties about the ocean that one could realize, but if any 
one had told him then that these things were banalities, 
he would have gaped in wonder. 

"Now we'll get lunch," ordered Kerry, wandering up 
with the crowd. "Come on, Amory, tear yourself 
away and get practical." 

"We'll try the best hotel first," he went on, "and 
thence and so forth." 

They strolled along the boardwalk to the most im- 
posing hostelry in sight, and, entering the dining-room, 
scattered about a table. 

"Eight Bronxes," commanded Alec, "and a club 
sandwich and Juliennes. The food for one. Hand the 
rest around." 

Amory ate little, having seized a chair where he could 
watch the sea and feel the rock of it. When luncheon 
was over they sat and smoked quietly. 

"What's the bill?" 

Some one scanned it. 


"Eight twenty-five." 

"Rotten overcharge. We'll give them two dollars 
and one for the waiter. Kerry, collect the small change. " 

The waiter approached, and Kerry gravely handed 
him a dollar, tossed two dollars on the check, and 
turned away. They sauntered leisurely toward the 
door, pursued in a moment by the suspicious Gany- 

"Some mistake, sir." 

Kerry took the bill and examined it critically. 

"No mistake !" he said, shaking his head gravdy, and, 
tearing it into four pieces, he handed the scraps to the 
waiter, who was so dumfounded that he stood motion- 
less and expressionless while they walked out. 

"Won't he send after us?" 

"No," said Kerry; "for a minute he'll think we're the 
proprietor's sons or something; then he'll look at the 
check again and call the manager, and in the mean- 
time " 

They left the car at Asbury and street-car'd to Allen- 
hurst, where they investigated the crowded pavilions for 
beauty. At four there were refreshments in a lunch- 
room, and this time they paid an even smaller per cent 
on the total cost; something about the appearance and 
savoir-faire of the crowd made the thing go, and they 
were not pursued. 

"You see, Amory, we're Marxian Socialists," ex- 
plained Kerry. "We don't believe in property and 
we're putting it to the great test." 

"Night will descend," Amory suggested. 

"Watch, and put your trust in Holiday." 

They became jovial about five-thirty and, linking 
arms, strolled up and down the boardwalk in a row, 
chanting a monotonous ditty about the sad sea waves. 
Then Kerry saw a face in the crowd that attracted him 


and, rushing off, reappeared in a moment with one of 
the homeliest girls Amory had ever set eyes on. Her 
pale mouth extended from ear to ear, her teeth projected 
in a solid wedge, and she had little, squinty eyes that 
peeped ingratiatingly over the side sweep of her nose. 
Kerry presented them formally. 

"Name of Kaluka, Hawaiian queen! Let me pre- 
sent Messrs. Connage, Sloane, Humbird, Ferrenby, and 

The girl bobbed courtesies all around. Poor creature; 
Amory supposed she had never before been noticed in 
her life possibly she was half-witted. While she ac- 
companied them (Kerry had invited her to supper) she 
said nothing which could discountenance such a belief. 

" She prefers her native dishes," said Alec gravely to 
the waiter, "but any coarse food will do." 

All through supper he addressed her in the most 
respectful language, while Kerry made idiotic love to 
her on the other side, and she giggled and grinned. 
Amory was content to sit and watch the by-play, think- 
ing what a light touch Kerry had, and how he could 
transform the barest incident into a thing of curve and 
contour. They all seemed to have the spirit of it more 
or less, and it was a relaxation to be with them. Amory 
usually liked men individually, yet feared them in 
crowds unless the crowd was around him. He wondered 
how much each one contributed to the party, for there 
was somewhat of a spiritual tax levied. Atec and Kerry 
were the life of it, but not quite the centre. Somehow 
the quiet Humbird, and Sloane, with his impatient super- 
ciliousness, were the centre. 

Dick Humbird had, ever since freshman year, seemed 
to Amory a perfect type of aristocrat. He was slender 
but well-built black curly hair, straight features, and 
rather a dark skin. Everything he said sounded intan- 


gibly appropriate. He possessed infinite courage, an 
averagely good mind, and a sense of honor with a clear 
charm and noblesse oblige that varied it from righteous- 
ness. He could dissipate without going to pieces, and 
even his most bohemian adventures never seemed "run- 
ning it out." People dressed like him, tried to talk as 
he did. . . . Amory decided that he probably held 
the world back, but he wouldn't have changed him. . . . 

He differed from the healthy type that was essentially 
middle-class he never seemed to perspire. Some peo- 
ple couldn't be familiar with a chauffeur without having 
it returned; Humbird could have lunched at Sherry's 
with a colored man, yet people would have somehow 
known that it was all right. He was not a snob, though 
he knew only half his class. His friends ranged from 
the highest to the lowest, but it was impossible to "cul- 
tivate" him. Servants worshipped him, and treated 
him like a god. He seemed the eternal example of 
what the upper class tries to be. 

"He's like those pictures in the Illustrated London 
News of the English officers who have been killed," 
Amory had said to Alec. 

"Well," Alec had answered, "if you want to know the 
shocking truth, his father was a grocery clerk who made 
a fortune in Tacoma real estate and came to New York 
ten years ago." 

Amory had felt a curious sinking sensation. 

This present type of party was made possible by the 
surging together of the class after club elections as if 
to make a last desperate attempt to know itself, to keep 
together, to fight off the tightening spirit of the dubs. 
It was a let-down from the conventional heights they 
had all walked so rigidly. 

After supper they saw Kaluka to the boardwalk, and 
then strolled back along the beach to Asbury. The 


evening sea was a new sensation, for all its color and mel- 
low age was gone, and it seemed the bleak waste that 
made the Norse sagas sad; Amory thought of Kipling's 

"Beaches of Luhanon before the sealers came" 

It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful. 

Ten o'clock found them penniless. They had sup- 
pered greatly on their last eleven cents and, singing, 
strolled up through the casinos and lighted arches on 
the boardwalk, stopping to listen approvingly to all 
band concerts. In one place Kerry took up a collection 
for the French War Orphans which netted a dollar and 
twenty cents, and with this they bought some brandy 
in case they caught cold in the night. They finished 
the day in a moving-picture show and went into solemn 
systematic roars of laughter at an ancient comedy, to 
the startled annoyance of the rest of the audience. 
Their entrance was distinctly strategic, for each man 
as he entered pointed reproachfully at the one just 
behind him. Sloane, bringing up the rear, disclaimed 
all knowledge and responsibility as soon as the others 
were scattered inside; then as the irate ticket-taker 
rushed in he followed nonchalantly. 

They reassembled later by the Casino and made 
arrangements for the night. Kerry wormed permission 
from the watchman to sleep on the platform and, hav- 
ing collected a huge pile of rugs from the booths to serve 
as mattresses and blankets, they talked until midnight, 
and then fell into a dreamless sleep, though Amory tried 
hard to stay awake and watch that marvellous moon 
settle on the sea. 

So they progressed for two happy days, up and down 
the shore by street-car or machine, or by shoe-leather on 
the crowded boardwalk; sometimes eating with the 


wealthy, more frequently dining frugally at the expense 
of an unsuspecting restaurateur. They had their photos 
taken, eight poses, in a quick-development store. Kerry 
insisted on grouping them as a "varsity" football team, 
and then as a tough gang from the East Side, with their 
coats inside out, and himself sitting in the middle on a 
cardboard moon. The photographer probably has them 
yet at least, they never called for them. The weather 
was perfect, and again they slept outside, and again 
Amory fell unwillingly asleep. 

Sunday broke stolid and respectable, and even the 
sea seemed to mumble and complain, so they returned 
to Princeton via the Fords of transient farmers, and 
broke up with colds in their heads, but otherwise none 
the worse for wandering. 

Even more than in the year before, Amory neglected 
his work, not deliberately but lazily and through a mul- 
titude of other interests. Co-ordinate geometry and the 
melancholy hexameters of Corneille and Racine held 
forth small allurements, and even psychology, which he 
had eagerly awaited, proved to be a dull subject full of 
muscular reactions and biological phrases rather than 
the study of personality and influence. That was a 
noon class, and it always sent him dozing. Having 
found that "subjective and objective, sir," answered 
most of the questions, he used the phrase on all occa- 
sions, and it became the class joke when, on a query 
being levelled at him, he was nudged awake by Fer- 
renby or Sk>ane to gasp it out. 

Mostly there were parties to Orange or the Shore, 
more rarely to New York and Philadelphia, though one 
night they marshalled fourteen waitresses out of Childs' 
and took them to ride down Fifth Avenue on top of an 
auto bus. They all cut more classes than were allowed, 
which meant an additional course the following year, 
but spring was too rare to let anything interfere with 


their colorful ramblings. In May Amory was elected 
to the Sophomore Prom Committee, and when after a 
long evening's discussion with Alec they made out a 
tentative list of class probabilities for the senior council, 
they placed themselves among the surest. The senior 
council was composed presumably of the eighteen most 
representative seniors, and in view of Alec's footiball 
managership and Amory's chance of nosing out Burne 
Holiday as Princetonian chairman, they seemed fairly 
justified in this presumption. Oddly enough, they both 
placed D'Invilliers as among the possibilities, a guess 
that a year before the class would have gaped at. 

All through the spring Amory had kept up an intermit- 
tent correspondence with Isabelle Borge, punctuated by 
violent squabbles and chiefly enlivened by his attempts 
to find new words for love. He discovered Isabelle to 
be discreetly and aggravatingly unsentimental in let- 
ters, but he hoped against hope that she would prove 
not too exotic a bloom to fit the large spaces of spring as 
she had fitted the den in the Minnehaha Club. During 
May he wrote thirty-page documents almost nightly, 
and sent them to her in bulky envelopes exteriorly 
labelled "Part I" and "Part II." 

"Oh, Alec, I believe I'm tired of college," he said 
sadly, as they walked the dusk together. 

"I think I am, too, in a way." 

"All I'd like would be a little home in the country, 
some warm country, and a wife, and just enough to do 
to keep from rotting." 

"Me, too." 

"I'd like to quit." 

"What does your girl say?" 

"Oh!" Amory gasped in horror. "She wouldn't 
think of marrying . . . that is, not now. I mean the 
future, you know." 

"My girl would. I'm engaged." 


"Are you really?" 

"Yes. Don't say a word to anybody, please, but I 
am. I may not come back next year." 

"But you're only twenty ! Give up college?" 

"Why, Amory, you were saying a minute ago " 

"Yes," Amory interrupted, "but I was just wishing. 
I wouldn't think of leaving college. It's just that I feel 
so sad these wonderful nights. I sort of feel they're 
never coming again, and I'm not really getting all I 
could out of them. I wish my girl lived here. But 
marry not a chance. Especially as father says the 
money isn't forthcoming as it used to be." 

"What a waste these nights are!" agreed Alec. 

But Amory sighed and made use of the nights. He 
had a snap-shot of Isabelle, enshrined in an old watch, 
and at eight almost every night he would turn off all the 
lights except the desk lamp and, sitting by the open 
windows with the picture before him, write her raptur- 
ous letters. 

. . . Oh, it's so hard to write you what I really fed when I 
think about you so much; you've gotten to mean to me a dream 
that I can't put on paper any more. Your last letter came and 
it was wonderful! I read it over about six times, especially 
the last part, but I do wish, sometimes, you'd be more frank 
and tell me what you really do think of me, yet your last letter 
was too good to be true, and I can hardly wait until June ! Be 
sure and be able to come to the prom. It'll be fine, I think, and 
I want to bring you just at the end of a wonderful year. I often 
think over what you said on that night and wonder how much 
you meant. If it were any one but you but you see I thought 
you were fickle the first time I saw you and you are so popular 
and everything that I can't imagine your really liking me best. 

Oh, Isabelle, dear it's a wonderful night. Somebody is play- 
ing "Love Moon" on a mandolin far across the campus, and 
the music seems to bring you into the window. Now he's play- 
ing "Good-by, Boys, I'm Through," and how well it suits me. 
For I am through with everything. I have decided never to 


take a cocktail again, and I know I'll never again fall in love 
I couldn't you've been too much a part of my days and nights 
to ever let me think of another girl. I meet them all the time 
and they don't interest me. I'm not pretending to be blase, 
because it's not that. It's just that I'm in love. Oh, dearest 
Isabefle (somehow I can't call you just Isabelle, and I'm afraid 
I'll come out with the "dearest" before your family this June), 
you've got to come to the prom, and then I'll come up to your 
house for a day and everything'll be perfect. . . . 

And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to 
both of them infinitely charming, infinitely new. 

June came and the days grew so hot and lazy that 
they could not worry even about exams, but spent 
dreamy evenings on the court of Cottage, talking of long 
subjects until the sweep of country toward Stony Brook 
became a blue haze and the lilacs were white around 
tennis-courts, and words gave way to silent cigarettes. 
. . . Then down deserted Prospect and along McCosh 
with song everywhere around them, up to the hot jovial- 
ity of Nassau Street. 

Tom D'Invilliers and Amory walked late in those 
days. A gambling fever swept through the sophomore 
class and they bent over the bones till three o'clock 
many a sultry night. After one session they came out 
of Sloane's room to find the dew fallen and the stars 
old in the sky. 

"Let's borrow bicycles and take a ride," Amory sug- 

"All right. I'm not a bit tired and this is almost the 
last night of the year, really, because the prom stuff 
starts Monday." 

They found two unlocked bicycles in Holder Court 
and rode out about half-past three along the Lawrence- 
ville Road. 

"What are you going to do this summer, Amory?" 


"T>on't ask me same old things, I suppose. A 
month or two in Lake Geneva I'm counting on you to 
be there in July, you know then there'll be Minneapo- 
lis, and that means hundreds of summer hops, parlor- 
snaking, getting bored But oh, Tom," he added 
suddenly, "hasn't this year been slid: !" 

"No/' declared Tom emphatically, a new Tom, 
clothed by Brooks, shod by Franks, "I've won this 
game, but I fed as if I never want to play another. 
You're all right you're a rubber ball, and somehow it 
suits you, but I'm sick of adapting myself to the local 
snobbishness of this corner of the world. I want to go 
where people aren't barred because of the color of their 
neckties and the roll of their coats." 

"You can't, Tom," argued Amory, as they rolled 
along through the scattering night; "wherever you go 
now you'll always unconsciously apply these standards 
of 'having it' or 'lacking it.' For better or worse we've 
stamped you; you're a Princeton type!" 

"Well, then," complained Tom, his cracked voice ris- 
ing plaintively, "why do I have to come back at all? 
I've learned all that Princeton has to offer. Two years 
more of mere pedantry and lying around a club aren't 
going to help. They're just going to disorganize me, 
conventionalize me completely. Even now I'm so 
spineless that I wonder how I get away with it." 

"Oh, but you're missing the real point, Tom," Amory 
interrupted. "You've just had your eyes opened to 
the snobbishness of the world in a rather abrupt man- 
ner. Princeton invariably gives the thoughtful man a 
social sense." 

"You consider you taught me that, don't you?" he 
asked quizzically, eying Amory in the half dark. 

Amory laughed quietly. 

"Didn't I?" 


"Sometimes," he said slowly, "I think you're my 
bad angel. I might have been a pretty fair poet." 

"Come on, that's rather hard. You chose to come 
to an Eastern college. Either your eyes were opened 
to the mean scrambling quality of people, or you'd have 
gone through blind, and you'd hate to have done that 
been like Marty Kaye." 

"Yes," he agreed, "you're right. I wouldn't have 
liked it. Still, it's hard to be made a cynic at twenty." 

" I was born one," Amory murmured. " I'm a cynical 
idealist." He paused and wondered if that meant any- 

They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, 
and turned to ride back. 

"It's good, this ride, isn't it?" Tom said presently. 

"Yes; it's a good finish, it's knock-out; everything's 
good to-night. Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and 

"Oh, you and your Isabelle! I'll bet she's a simple 
one . . . let's say some poetry." 

So Amory declaimed "The Ode to a Nightingale" to 
the bashes they passed. 

"I'D never be a poet," said Amory as he finished. 
"I'm not enough of a sensualist really; there are only a 
few obvious things that I notice as primarily beautiful: 
women, spring evenings, music at night, the sea; I don't 
catch the subtle things like 'silver-snarling trumpets.' 
I may turn out an intellectual, but I'll never write any- 
thing but mediocre poetry." 

They rode into Princeton as the sun was making col- 
ored maps of the sky behind the graduate school, and 
hurried to the refreshment of a shower that would have 
to serve in place of sleep. By noon the bright-costumed 
alumni crowded the streets with their bands and cho- 
ruses, and in the tents there was great reunion under the 


orange-and-black banners that curled and strained in 
the wind. Amory looked long at one house which bore 
the legend "Sixty-nine." There a few gray-haired men 
sat and talked quietly while the classes swept by in 
panorama of life. 


Then tragedy's emerald eyes glared suddenly at 
Amory over the edge of June. On the night after his 
ride to Lawrenceville a crowd sallied to New York in 
quest of adventure, and started back to Princeton about 
twelve o'clock in two machines. It had been a gay 
party and different stages of sobriety were represented. 
Amory was in the car behind; they had taken the wrong 
road and lost the way, and so were hurrying to catch up. 

It was a clear night and the exhilaration of the road 
went to Amory's head. He had the ghost of two stanzas 
of a poem forming in his mind. . . . 

So the gray car crept nightward in the dark and there was no 
life stirred as it went by. . . . As the still ocean paths before the 
shark in starred and glittering waterways, beauty-high, the moon- 
swathed trees divided, pair on pair, while flapping nightbirds cried 
across the air. . . . 

A moment by an inn of lamps and shades, a yellow inn under 
a yellow moon then silence, where crescendo laughter fades . . . 
the car swung out again to the winds of June, mellowed the shadows 
where the distance grew, then crushed the yellow shadows into 
blue. . . . 

They jolted to a stop, and Amory peered up, startled. 
A woman was standing beside the road, talking to Alec 
at the wheel. Afterward he remembered the harpy 
effect that her old kimono gave her, and the cracked 
hollowness of her voice as she spoke: 

"You Princeton boys?" 



"Well, there's one of you killed here, and two others 
about dead." 

"My God!" 

"Look!" She pointed and they gazed in horror. 
Under the full light of a roadside arc-light lay a form, 
face downward in a widening circle of blood. 

They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the 
back of that head that hair that hair . . . and then 
they turned the form over. 

"It's Dick Dick Humbird!" 

"Oh, Christ!" 

"Feel his heart!" 

Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of 
croaking triumph: 

"He's quite dead, all right. The car turned over. 
Two of the men that weren't hurt just carried the others 
in, but this one's no use." 

Amory rushed into the house and the rest followed 
with a limp mass that they laid on the sofa in the shoddy 
little front parlor. Sloane, with his shoulder punctured, 
was on another lounge. He was half delirious, and kept 
calling something about a chemistry lecture at 8:10. 

"I don't know what happened," said Ferrenby in a 
strained voice. "Dick was driving and he wouldn't 
give up the wheel; we told him he'd been drinking too 
much then there was this damn curve oh, my 
God! ..." He threw himself face downward on the 
floor and broke into dry sobs. 

The doctor had arrived, and Amory went over to the 
couch, where some one handed him a sheet to put over 
the body. With a sudden hardness, he raised one of 
the hands and let it fall back inertly. The brow was 
cold but the face not expressionless. He looked at the 
shoe-laces Dick had tied them that morning. He had 
tied them and now he was this heavy white mass. 


All that remained of the charm and personality of the 
Dick Humbird he had known oh, it was all so horrible 
and unaristocratic and close to the earth. All tragedy 
has that strain of the grotesque and squalid so useless, 
futile . . . the way animals die. . . . Amory was re- 
minded of a cat that had lain horribly mangled in some 
alley of his childhood. 

"Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby." 
Amory stepped outside the door and shivered slightly 
at the late night wind a wind that stirred a broken 
fender on the mass of bent metal to a plaintive, tinny 


Next day, by -a merciful chance, passed in a whirl. 
When Amory was by himself his thoughts zigzagged 
inevitably to the picture of that red mouth yawning 
incongruously in the white face, but with a determined 
effort he piled present excitement upon the memory of 
it and shut it coldly away from his mind. 

IsabeBe and her mother drove into town at four, and 
they rode up smiling Prospect Avenue, through the gay 
crowd, to have tea at Cottage. The dubs had their 
annual dinners that night, so at seven he loaned her to 
a freshman and arranged to meet her in the gymnasium 
at eleven, when the upper classmen were admitted to 
the freshman dance. She was all he had expected, and 
he was happy and eager to make that night the centre 
of every dream. At nine the upper classes stood in 
front of the clubs as the freshman torchlight parade 
rioted past, and Amory wondered if the dress-suited 
groups against the dark, stately backgrounds and under 
the flare of the torches made the night as brilliant to 
the staring, cheering freshmen as it had been to him the 
year before. 


The next day was another whirl. They lunched in a 
gay party of six in a private dining-room at the dub, 
while Isabelle and Amory looked at each other tenderly 
over the fried chicken and knew that their love was to 
be eternal. They danced away the prom until five, 
and the stags cut in on Isabelle with joyous abandon, 
which grew more and more enthusiastic as the hour 
grew late, and their wines, stored in overcoat pockets 
in the coat room, made old weariness wait until another 
day. The stag line is a most homogeneous mass of 
men. It fairly sways with a single soul. A dark-haired 
beauty dances by and there is a half-gasping sound as 
the ripple surges forward and some one sleeker than the 
rest darts out and cuts in. Then when the six-foot girl 
(brought by Kaye in your class, and to whom he has 
been trying to introduce you all evening) gallops by, 
the line surges back and the groups face about and be- 
come intent on far corners of the hall, for Kaye, anxious 
and perspiring, appears elbowing through the crowd in 
search of familiar faces. 

"I say, old man, I've got an awfully nice 

"Sorry, Kaye, but I'm set for this one. I've got to 
cut in on a fella." 

"Well, the next one?" 

"What ah er I swear I've got to go cut in look 
me up when she's got a dance free." 

It delighted Amory when Isabelle suggested that they 
leave for a while and drive around in her car. For a 
delicious hour that passed too soon they glided the 
silent roads about Princeton and talked from the sur- 
face of their hearts in shy excitement. Amory felt 
strangely ingenuous and made no attempt to kiss her. 

Next day they rode up through the Jersey country, 
had luncheon in New York, and in the afternoon went 
to see a problem play at which Isabelle wept all through 


the second act, rather to Amory's embarrassment 
though it filled him with tenderness to watch her. He 
was tempted to lean over and kiss away her tears, and 
she slipped her hand into his under cover of darkness 
to be pressed softly. 

Then at six they arrived at the Borges' summer place 
on Long Island, and Amory rushed up-stairs to change 
into a dinner coat. As he put in his studs he realized 
that he was enjoying life as he would probably never 
enjoy it again. Everything was hallowed by the haze 
of his own youth. He had arrived, abreast of the best 
in his generation at Princeton. He was in love and his 
love was returned. Turning on all the lights, he looked 
at himself in the mirror, trying to find in his own face 
the qualities that made him see clearer than the great 
crowd of people, that made him decide firmly, and able 
to influence and follow his own will. There was little 
in his life now that he would have changed. . . . Ox- 
ford might have been a bigger field. 

Silently he admired himself. How conveniently well 
he looked, and how well a dinner coat became him. He 
stepped into the hall and then waited at the top of the 
stairs, for he heard footsteps coming. It was Isabelle, 
and from the top of her shining hair to her little golden 
slippers she had never seemed so beautiful. 

"Isabelle!" he cried, half involuntarily, and held out 
his arms. As in the story-books, she ran into them, 
and on that half-minute, as their lips first touched, 
rested the high point of vanity, the crest of his young 


"Oucn! Let me go!" 

He dropped his arms to his sides. 

"What's the matter?" 

" Your shirt stud it hurt me look ! " She was look- 
ing down at her neck, where a little blue spot about 
the size of a pea marred its pallor. 

"Oh, Isabelle," he reproached himself, "I'm a goo- 
pher. Really, I'm sorry I shouldn't have held you so 

She looked up impatiently. 

"Oh, Amory, of course you couldn't help it, and it 
didn't hurt much; but what are we going to do about 

"Do about it?" he asked. "Oh that spot; it'll dis- 
appear in a second." 

"It isn't," she said, after a moment of concentrated 
gazing, "it's still there and it looks like Old Nick oh, 
Amory, what'll we do ! It's just the height of your 

"Massage it," he suggested, repressing the faintest 
inclination to laugh. 

She rubbed it delicately with the tips of her fingers, 
and then a tear gathered in the corner of her eye, and 
slid down her cheek. 

"Oh, Amory," she said despairingly, lifting up a most 
pathetic face, "I'll just make my whole neck flame if I 
rub it. What'll I do?" 



A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn't resist 
repeating it aloud. 

"All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand." 

She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye 
was like ice. 

"You're not very sympathetic." 

Amory mistook her meaning. 

"Isabelle, darling, I think it'll " v 

"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Haven't I enough 
on my mind and you stand there and laugh!" 

Then he slipped again. 

"Well, it is funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the 
other day about a sense of humor being 

She was looking at him with something that was not 
a smile, rather the faint, mirthless echo of a smile, in the 
corners of her mouth. 

"Oh, shut up!" she cried suddenly, and fled down 
the hallway toward her room. Amory stood there, 
covered with remorseful confusion. 


When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light 
wrap about her shoulders, and they descended the stairs 
in a silence that endured through dinner. 

"Isabelle," he began rather testily, as they arranged 
themselves in the car, bound for a dance at the ,Green- 
wich Country Club, "you're angry, and I'll be, too, in 
a minute. Let's kiss and make up." 

Isabelle considered glumly. 

"I hate to be laughed at," she said finally. 

"I won't laugh any more. I'm not laughing now, 

"You did." 

"Oh, don't be so darned feminine." 


Her lips curled slightly. 

"FU be anything I want" 

Amory kept his temper with difficulty. He became 
aware that he had not an ounce of real affection for Isa- 
belle, but her coldness piqued him. He wanted to kiss 
her, kiss her a lot, because then he knew he could leave 
in the morning and not care. On the contrary, if he 
didn't kiss her, it would worry him. ... It would in- 
terfere vaguely with his idea of himself as a conqueror. 
It wasn't dignified to come off second best, pleading, with 
a doughty warrior like IsabeUe. 

Perhaps she suspected this. At any rate, Amory 
watched the night that should have been the consum- 
mation of romance glide by with great moths overhead 
and the heavy fragrance of roadside gardens, but with- 
out those broken words, those little sighs. . . . 

Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil's 
food in the pantry, and Amory announced a decision. 

"I'm leaving early in the morning." 


"Why not?" he countered. 

"There's no need." 

"However, I'm going." 

"Well, if you insist on being ridiculous " 

"Oh, don't put it that way," he objected. 

" just because I won't let you kiss me. Do you 
think " 

"Now, Isabelle," he interrupted, "you know it's not 
that even suppose it is. We've reached the stage 
where we either ought to kiss or or nothing. It 
isn't as if you were refusing on moral grounds." 

She hesitated. 

"I really don't know what to think about you/' she 
began, in a feeble, perverse attempt at conciliation. 
"You're so funny." 



"Well, I thought you had a lot of self-confidence and 
all that; remember you told me the other day that you 
could do anything you wanted, or get anything you 

Amory flushed. He had told her a lot of things. 


"Well, you didn't seem to feel so self-confident to- 
night. Maybe you're just plain conceited." 

"No, I'm not," he hesitated. "At Princeton^" 

"Oh, you and Princeton! You'd think that was the 
world, the way you talk ! Perhaps you can write better 
than anybody else on your old Princetonian; maybe the 
freshmen do think you're important ' 

"You don't understand " 

"Yes, I do," she interrupted. "I do, because you're 
always talking about yourself and I used to like it; 
now I don't" 

"Have I to-night?" 

"That's just the point," insisted Isabelle. "You got 
all upset to-night. You just sat and watched my eyes. 
Besides, I have to think all the time I'm talking to you 
you're so critical." 

"I make you think, do I?" Amory repeated with a 
touch of vanity. 

"You're a nervous strain" this emphatically "and 
when you analyze every little emotion and instinct I 
Just don't have 'em." 

"I know." Amory admitted her point and shook his 
head helplessly. 

"Let's go." She stood up. 

He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of 
the stairs. 

"What train can I get?" 

"There's one about 9:11 if you really must go." 


"Yes, I've got to go, really. Good night." 


They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory 
turned into his room he thought he caught just the faint- 
est cloud of discontent in her face. He lay awake in the 
darkness and wondered how much he cared how much 
of his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity whether he 
was, after all, temperamentally unfitted for romance. 

When he awoke, it was with a glad flood of conscious- 
ness. The early wind stirred the chintz curtains at the 
windows and he was idly puzzled not to be in his room 
at Princeton with his school football picture over the 
bureau and the Triangle Club on the wall opposite. 
Then the grandfather's clock in the hall outside struck 
eight, and the memory of the night before came to him. 
He was out of bed, dressing, like the wind; he must get 
out of the house before he saw Isabelle. What had 
seemed a melancholy happening, now seemed a tiresome 
anticlimax. He was dressed at half past, so he sat 
down by the window; felt that the sinews of his heart 
were twisted somewhat more than he had thought. 
What an ironic mockery the morning seemed! bright 
and sunny, and full of the smell of the garden; hearing 
Mrs. Borge's voice in the sun-parlor below, he won- 
dered where was Isabelle. 

There was a knock at the door. 

"The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir." 

He returned to his contemplation of the outdoors, 
and began repeating over and over, mechanically, a 
verse from Browning, which he had once quoted to 
Isabelle in a letter: 

"Each life unfulfilled, you see, 

It hangs still, patchy and scrappy; 
We have not sighed deep, laughed free, 
Starved, feasted, despaired been happy." 


But his life would not be unfulfilled. He took a som- 
bre satisfaction in thinking that perhaps all along she 
had been nothing except what he had read into her; that 
this was her high point, that no one else would ever 
make her think. Yet that was what she had objected 
to in him; and Amory was suddenly tired of thinking, 

"Damn her!" he said bitterly, "she's spoiled my 


On a dusty day in September Amory arrived in 
Princeton and joined the sweltering crowd of condi- 
tioned men who thronged the streets. It seemed a 
stupid way to commence his upper-class years, to spend 
four hours a morning in the stuffy room of a tutoring 
school, imbibing the infinite boredom of conic sections. 
Mr. Rooney, pander to the dull, conducted the class 
and smoked innumerable Pall Malls as he drew dia- 
grams and worked equations from six in the morning 
until midnight. 

"Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where 
would my A point be ? " 

Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football 
material and tries to concentrate. 

"Oh ah I'm damned if I know, Mr. Rooney." 

"Oh, why of course, of course you can't use that 
formula. That's what I wanted you to say." 

"Why, sure, of course." 

"Do you see why?" 

"You bet I suppose so." 

"If you don't see, tell me. I'm here to show you." 

"Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don't mind, I wish you'd 
go over that again." 

"Gladly. Now here's ',4' . . ." 


The room was a study in stupidity two huge stands 
for paper, Mr. Rooney in his shirt-sleeves in front of 
them, and slouched around on chairs, a dozen men: 
Fred Sloane, the pitcher, who absolutely had to get 
eligible; "Slim" Langueduc, who would beat Yale this 
fall, if only he could master a poor fifty per cent; Mc- 
Dowell, gay young sophomore, who thought it was 
quite a sporting thing to be tutoring here with all these 
prominent athletes. 

"Those poor birds who haven't a cent to tutor, and 
have to study during the term are the ones I pity," he 
announced to Amory one day, with a flaccid camaraderie 
in the droop of the cigarette from his pale lips. "I 
should think it would be such a bore, there's so much 
else to do in New York during the term. I suppose 
they don't know what they miss, anyhow." There was 
such an air of "you and I" about Mr. McDowell that 
Amory very nearly pushed him out of the open window 
when he said this. . . . Next February his mother 
would wonder why he didn't make a club and increase 
his allowance . . . simple little nut. . . . 

Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense 
earnestness that filled the room would come the inevita- 
ble helpless cry: 

"I don't get it ! Repeat that, Mr. Rooney ! " Most 
of them were so stupid or careless that they wouldn't 
admit when they didn't understand, and Amory was 
of the latter. He found it impossible to study conic 
sections; something in their calm and tantalizing respec- 
tability breathing defiantly through Mr. Rooney's fetid 
parlors distorted their equations into insoluble ana- 
grams. He made a last night's effort with the prover- 
bial wet towel, and then blissfully took the exam, won- 
dering unhappily why all the color and ambition of the 
spring before had faded out. SomehoWj with the de- 


fection of Isabelle the idea of undergraduate success 
had loosed its grasp on his imagination, and he con- 
templated a possible failure to pass off his condition 
with equanimity, even though it would arbitrarily mean 
his removal from the Princeionian board and the slaugh- 
ter of his chances for the Senior Council. 

There was always his luck. 

He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, 
and sauntered from the room. 

"If you don't pass it," said the newly arrived Alec 
as they sat on the window-seat of Amory's room and 
mused upon a scheme of wall decoration, "you're the 
world's worst goopher. Your stock will go down like 
an elevator at the club and on the campus." 

"Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in ? " 

"'Cause you deserve it. Anybody that'd risk what 
you were in line for ought to be ineligible for Princetonian 

"Oh, drop the subject," Amory protested. "Watch 
and wait and shut up. I don't want every one at the 
club asking me about it, as if I were a prize potato being 
fattened for a vegetable show." 

One evening a week later Amory stopped below his 
own window on the way to Renwick's, and, seeing a 
light, called up: 

"Oh, Tom, any mail?" 

Alec's head appeared against the yellow square of light. 

"Yes, your result's here." 

His heart clamored violently. 

"What is it, .blue or pink ? " 

"Don't know. Better come up." 

He walked into the room and straight over to the 
table, and then suddenly noticed that there were other 
people in the room. 

'Lo, Kerry." He was most polite. "Ah, men of 



Princeton." They seemed to be mostly friends, so he 
picked up the envelope marked "Registrar's Office," 
and weighed it nervously. 

"We have here quite a slip of paper." 

"Open it, Amory." 

"Just to be dramatic, I'll let you know that if it's 
blue, my name is withdrawn from the editorial board 
of the Prince, and my short career is over." 

He paused, and then saw for the first time Ferrenby's 
eyes, wearing a hungry look and watching him eagerly. 
Amory returned the gaze pointedly. 

"Watch my face, gentlemen, for the primitive emo- 

He tore it open and held the slip up to the light. 


"Pink or blue?" 

"Say what it is." 

"We're all ears, Amory." 

"Smile or swear or something." 

There was a pause ... a small crowd of seconds 
swept by ... then he looked again and another crowd 
went on into time. 

"Blue as the sky, gentlemen. . . ." 


What Amory did that year from early September to 
late in the spring was so purposeless and inconsecutive 
that it seems scarcely worth recording. He was, of 
course, immediately sorry for what he had lost. His 
philosophy of success had tumbled down upon him, and 
he looked for the reasons. ' 

"Your own laziness," said Alec later. 

"No something deeper than that. I've begun to 
feel that I was meant to lose this chance." 


"They're rather off you at the club, you know; every 
man that doesn't come through makes our crowd jus* 
so much weaker." 

"I hate that point of view." 

"Of course, with a little effort you could still stage a 

"No I'm through as far as ever being a power in 
college is concerned." 

"But, Amory, honestly, what makes me the angriest 
isn't the fact that you won't be chairman of the Prince 
and on the Senior Council, but just that you didn't get 
down and pass that exam." 

"Not me," said Amory slowly; "I'm mad at the con- 
crete thing. My own idleness was quite in accord with 
my system, but the luck broke." 

"Your system broke, you mean." 


"Well, what are you going to do? Get a better one 
quick, or just bum around for two more years as a has- 

"I don't know yet . . ." 

'Oh, Amory, buck up !" 


Amory's point of view, though dangerous, was not 
far from the true one. If his reactions to his environ- 
ment could be tabulated, the chart would have appeared 
like this, beginning with his earliest years: 

1. The fundamental Amory. 

2. Amory plus Beatrice. 

3. Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis. 

Then St. Regis' had pulled him to pieces and started 
him over again: 

4. Amory plus St. Regis'. 

5. Ainory plus St. Regis' plus Princeton. 

That had been his nearest approach to success through 


conformity. The fundamental Amory, idle, imagina- 
tive, rebellious, had been nearly snowed under. He 
had conformed, he had succeeded, but as his imagina- 
tion was neither satisfied nor grasped by his own success, 
he had listlessly, half-accidentally chucked the whole 
thing and become again: 
. 6. The fundamental Amory. 


His father died quietly and inconspicuously at Thanks- 
giving. The incongruity of death with either the beau- 
ties of Lake Geneva or with his mother's dignified, reti- 
cent attitude diverted him, and he looked at the funeral 
with an amused tolerance. He decided that burial was 
after all preferable to cremation, and he smiled at his 
old boyhood choice, slow oxidation in the top of a tree. 
The day after the ceremony he was amusing himself in 
the great library by sinking back on a couch in graceful 
mortuary attitudes, trying to determine whether he 
would, when his day came, be found with his arms 
crossed piously over his chest (Monsignor Darcy had 
once advocated this posture as being the most distin- 
guished), or with his hands clasped behind his head, a 
more pagan and Byronic attitude. 

What interested him much more than the final de- 
parture of his father from things mundane was a tri- 
cornered conversation between Beatrice, Mr. Barton, 
of Barton and Krogman, their lawyers, and himself, 
that took place several days after the funeral. For the 
first time he came into actual cognizance of the family 
finances, and realized what a tidy fortune had once 
been under his father's management. He took a ledger 
labelled "1906" and ran through it rather carefully. 
The total expenditure that year had come to something 


over one hundred and ten thousand dollars. Forty 
thousand of this had been Beatrice's own income, and 
there had been no attempt to account for it: it was all 
under the heading, "Drafts, checks, and letters of credit 
forwarded to Beatrice Blaine." The dispersal of the 
rest was rather minutely itemized: the taxes and im- 
provements on the Lake Geneva estate had come to 
almost nine thousand dollars; the general up-keep, in- 
cluding Beatrice's electric and a French car, bought that 
year, was over thirty-five thousand dollars. The rest 
was fully taken care of, and there were invariably items 
which failed to balance on the right side of the ledger. 

In the volume for 1912 Amory was shocked to dis- 
cover the decrease in the number of bond holdings and 
the great drop in the income. In the case of Beatrice's 
money this was not so pronounced, but it was obvious 
that his father had devoted the previous year to several 
unfortunate gambles in oil. Very little of the oil had 
been burned, but Stephen Blaine had been rather badly 
singed. The next year and the next and the next 
showed similar decreases, and Beatrice had for the first 
time begun using her own money for keeping up the 
house. Yet her doctor's bill for 1913 had been over 
nine thousand dollars. 

About the exact state of things Mr. Barton was 
quite vague and confused. There had been recent in- 
vestments, the outcome of which was for the present 
problematical, and he had an idea there were further 
speculations and exchanges concerning which he had 
not been consulted. 

It was not for several months that Beatrice wrote 
Amory the full situation. The entire residue of the 
Blaine and O'Hara fortunes consisted of the place at 
Lake Geneva and approximately a half million dollars, 
invested now in fairly conservative six-per-cent hold- 


Ings. In fact, Beatrice wrote that she was putting the 
money into railroad and street-car bonds as fast as she 
could conveniently transfer it. 

"I am quite sure," she wrote to Amory, "that if there is one 
thing we can be positive of, it is that people will not stay in one 
place. This Ford person has certainly made the most of that 
idea. So I am instructing Mr. Barton to specialize on such 
things as Northern Pacific and these Rapid Transit Companies, 
as they call the street-cars. I shall never forgive myself for not 
buying Bethlehem Steel. I've heard the most fascinating stories. 
You must go into finance, Amory. I'm sure you would revel 
in it. You start as a messenger or a teller, I believe, and from 
that you go up almost indefinitely. I'm sure if I were a man 
I'd love the handling of money; it has become quite a senile 
passion with me. Before I get any farther I want to discuss 
something. A Mrs. Bispam, an overcordial little lady whom 
I met at a tea the other day, told me that her son, he is at Yale, 
wrote her that all the boys there wore their summer underwear 
all during the winter, and also went about with their heads wet 
and in low shoes on the coldest days. Now, Amory, I don't 
know whether that is a fad at Princeton too, but I don't want 
you to be so foolish. It not only inclines a young man to 
pneumonia and infantile paralysis, but to all forms of lung 
trouble, to which you are particularly inclined. You cannot 
experiment with your health. I have found that out. I will 
not make myself ridiculous as some mothers no doubt do, by 
insisting that you wear overshoes, though I remember one Christ- 
mas you wore them around constantly without a single buckle 
latched, making such a curious swishing sound, and you refused 
to buckle them because it was not the thing to do. The very 
next Christmas you would not wear even rubbers, though I 
begged you. You are nearly twenty years old now, dear, and 
I can't be with you constantly to find whether you are doing the 
sensible thing. 

" This has been a very practical letter. I warned you in my 
last that the lack of money to do the things one wants to makes 
one quite prosy and domestic, but there is still plenty for every- 
thing if we are not too extravagant. Take care of yourself, my 
dear boy, and do try to write at least once a week, because I 
imagine all sorts of horrible things if I don't hear from you. 

Affectionately, MOTHER." 



Monsignor Darcy invited Amory up to the Stuart 
palace on the Hudson for a week at Christmas, and they 
had enormous conversations around the open fire. Mon- 
signor was growing a trifle stouter and his personality 
had expanded even with that, and Amory felt both rest 
and security in sinking into a squat, cushioned chair 
and joining him in the middle-aged sanity of a cigar. 

"I've felt like leaving college, Monsigno*r." 


"All my career's gone up in smoke; you think it's 
petty and all that, but " 

"Not at all petty. I think it's most important. I 
want to hear the whole thing. Everything you've been 
doing since I saw you last." 

Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruc- 
tion of his egotistic highways, and in a half-hour the 
listless quality had left his voice. 

"What would you do if you left college?" asked 

"Don't know. I'd like to travel, but of course this 
tiresome war prevents that. Anyways, mother would 
hate not having me graduate. I'm just at sea. Kerry 
Holiday wants me to go over with him and join the La- 
fayette Esquadrille." 

"You know you wouldn't like to go." 

"Sometimes I would to-night I'd go in a second." 

"Well, you'd have to be very much more tired of life 
than I think you are. I know you." 

"I'm afraid you do," agreed Amory reluctantly. "It 
just seemed an easy way out of everything when I 
think of another useless, draggy year." 

"Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I'm not wor- 


ried about you; you seem to me to be progressing per- 
fectly naturally." 

"No," Amory objected. "I've lost half my person- 
ality in a year." 

"Not a bit of it!" scoffed Monsignor. "You've lost 
a great amount of vanity and that's all." 

"Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I'd gone through 
another fifth form at St. Regis's." 

"No." Monsignor shook his head. "That was a 
misfortune; this has been a good thing. Whatever 
worth while comes to you, won't be through the 
channels you were searching last year." 

"What could be more unprofitable than my present 
lack of pep?" 

"Perhaps in itself . . . but you're developing. This 
has given you time to think and you're casting off a lot 
of your old luggage about success and the superman 
and all. People like us can't adopt whole theories, as 
you (fid. If we can do the next thing, and have an 
hour a day to think in, we can accomplish marvels, but 
as far as any high-handed scheme of blind dominance is 
concerned we'd just make asses of ourselves." 

"But, Monsignor, I can't do the next thing." 

"Amory, between you and me, I have only just learned 
to do it myself. I can do the one hundred things be- 
yond the next thing, but I stub my toe on that, just as 
you stubbed your toe on mathematics this fall." 

"Why do we have to do the next thing? It never 
seems the sort of thing I should do." 

"We have to do it because we're not personalities, 
but personages." 

"That's a good line what do you mean?" 

"A personality is what you thought you were, what 
this Kerry and Sloane you tell me of evidently are. Per- 
sonality is a physical matter almost entirely; it lowers 


the people it acts on I've seen it vanish in a long sick- 
ness. But while a personality is active, it overrides 
'the next thing.' Now a personage, on the other hand, 
gathers. He is never thought of apart from what he's 
done. He's a bar on which a thousand things have been 
hung glittering things sometimes, as ours are; but he 
uses those things with a cold mentality back of them." 

"And several of my most glittering possessions had 
fallen off when I needed them." Amory continued the 
simile eagerly. 

"Yes, that's it; when you feel that your garnered 
prestige and talents and all that are hung out, you need 
never bother about anybody; you can cope with them 
without difficulty." 

"But, on the other hand, if I haven't my possessions, 
I'm helpless!" 


"That's certainly an idea." 

"Now you've a clean start a start Kerry or Sloane 
can constitutionally never have. You brushed three or 
four ornaments down, and, in a fit of pique, knocked off 
the rest of them. The thing new is to collect some new 
ones, and the farther you look ahead in the collecting 
the better. But remember, do the next thing ! " 

"How clear you can make things!" 

So they talked, often about themselves, sometimes of 
philosophy and religion, and life as respectively a game 
or a mystery. The priest seemed to guess Amory's 
thoughts before they were clear in his own head, so 
closely related were their minds in form and groove. 

"Why do I make lists?" Amory asked him one night. 
"Lists of all sorts of things?" 

"Because you're a mediaevalist," Monsignor answered. 
"We both are. It's the passion for classifying and find- 
ing a type." 

"It's a desire to get something definite." 


"It's the nucleus of scholastic philosophy." 

"I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till 
I came up here. It was a pose, I guess." 

"Don't worry about that; for you not posing may be 
the biggest pose of all. Pose " 


"But do the next thing." 

After Amory returned to college he received several 
letters from Monsignor which gave him more egotistic 
food for consumption. 

I am afraid that I gave you too much assurance of your 
inevitable safety, and you must remember that I did that 
through faith in your springs of effort; not in the silly conviction 
that you will arrive without struggle. Some nuances of char- 
acter you will have to take for granted in yourself, though you 
must be careful in confessing them to others. You are unsen- 
timental, almost incapable of affection, astute without being 
cunning and vain without being proud. 

Don't let yourself feel worthless; often through life you will 
really be at your worst when you seem to think best of yourself; 
and don't worry about losing your "personality," as you per- 
sist in calling it; at fifteen you had the radiance of early morn- 
ing, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance 
of the moon, and when you are my age you will give out, as I 
do, the genial golden warmth of 4 P. M. 

If you write me letters, please let them be natural ones. 
Your last, that dissertation on architecture, was perfectly awful 
so "highbrow" that I picture you living in an intellectual and 
emotional vacuum; and beware of trying to classify people too 
definitely into types; you will find that all through their youth 
they will persist annoyingly in jumping from class to class, and 
by pasting a supercilious label on every one you meet you are 
merely packing a Jack-in-the-box that will spring up and leer 
at you when you begin to come into really antagonistic contact 
with the world. An idealization of some such a man as Leonardo 
da Vinci would be a more valuable beacon to you at present. 

You are bound to go up and down, just as I did in my youth, 
but do keep your clarity of mind, and if fools or sages dare to 
criticise don't blame yourself too much. 

You say that convention is all that really keeps you straight 


in this "woman proposition"; but it's more than that, Amory; 
it's the fear that what you begin you can't stop; you would run 
amuck, and I know whereof I speak; it's that half-miraculous 
sixth sense by which you detect evil, it's the half-realized fear 
of God in your heart. 

Whatever your metier proves to be religion, architecture, lit- 
erature I'm sure you would be much safer anchored to the 
Churcb, but I won't risk my influence by arguing with you 
even though I am secretly sure that the "black chasm of Ro- 
manism" yawns beneath you. Do write me soon. 

With affectionate regards, 


Even Amory's reading paled during this period; he 
delved further into the misty side streets of literature: 
Huysmans, Walter Pater, Theophile Gautier, and the 
racier sections of Rabelais, Boccaccio, Petronius, and 
Suetonius. One week, through general curiosity, he in- 
spected the private libraries of his classmates and found 
Sloane's as typical as any: sets of Kipling, O. Henry, 
John Fox, Jr.. and Richard Harding Davis; "What 
Every Middle- Aged Woman Ought to Know," "The 
Spell of the Yukon"; a "gift" copy of James Whitcomb 
Riley, an assortment of battered, annotated school- 
books, and, finally, to his surprise, one of his own late 
discoveries, the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. 

Together with Tom D'Invilliers, he sought among the 
lights of Princeton for some one who might found the 
Great American Poetic Tradition. 

The undergraduate body itself was rather more inter- 
esting that year than had been the entirely Philistine 
Princeton of two years before. Things had livened sur- 
prisingly, though at the sacrifice of much of the sponta- 
neous charm of freshman year. In the old Princeton 
they would never have discovered Tanaduke Wylie. 
Tanaduke was a sophomore, with tremendous ears and 
a way of saying, "The earth swirls down through the 


ominous moons of preconsidered generations!" that 
made them vaguely wonder why it did not sound quite 
clear, but never question that it was the utterance of a 
supersoul. At least so Tom and Amory took him. 
They told him in all earnestness that he had a mind like 
Shelley's, and featured his ultrafree free verse and 
prose poetry in the Nassau Literary Magazine. But 
Tanaduke's genius absorbed the many colors of the age, 
and he took to the Bohemian life, to their great disap- 
pointment. He talked of Greenwich Village now in- 
stead of "noon-swirled moons," and met winter muses, 
unacademic, and cloistered by Forty-second Street and 
Broadway, instead of the Shelleyan dream-children with 
whom he had regaled their expectant appreciation. So 
they surrendered Tanaduke to the futurists, deciding 
that he and his flaming ties would do better there. Tom 
gave him the final advice that he should stop writing 
for two years and read the complete works of Alexander 
Pope four times, but on Amory's suggestion that Pope 
for Tanaduke was like foot-ease for stomach trouble, 
they withdrew in laughter, and called it a coin's toss 
whether this genius was too big or too petty for them. 

Amory rather scornfully avoided the popular profes- 
sors who dispensed easy epigrams and thimblefuls of 
Chartreuse to groups of admirers every night. He was 
disappointed, too, at the air of general uncertainty on 
every subject that seemed linked with the pedantic tem- 
perament; his opinions took shape in a miniature satire 
called "In a Lecture-Room," which he persuaded Tom 
to print in the Nassau Lit, 

"Good-morning, Fool . . . 

Three times a week 
You hold us helpless while you speak, 
Teasing our thirsty souls with the 
Sleek 'yeas' of your philosophy . . . 


Well, here we are, your hundred sheep, 

Tune up, play on, pour forth ... we sleep . 

You are a student, so they say; 

You hammered out the other day 

A syllabus, from what we know 

Of some forgotten folio; 

You'd sniffled through an era's must, 

Filling your nostrils up with dust, 

And then, arising from your knees, 

Published, in one gigantic sneeze . . . 

But here's a neighbor on my right, 

An Eager Ass, considered bright; 

Asker of questions. . . . How he'll stand. 

With earnest air and fidgy hand, 

After this hour, telling you 

He sat all night and burrowed through 

Your book. . . . Oh, you'll be coy and he 

Will simulate precosity, 

And pedants both, you'll smile and smirk, 

And leer, and hasten back to work. . . . 

Twas this day week, sir, you returned 
A theme of mine, from which I learned 
(Through various comment on the side 
Which you had scrawled) that I defied 
The highest rules of criticism 
For cheap and careless witticism. . . . 

'Are you quite sure that this could be?' 

'Shaw is no authority!' 
But Eager Ass, with what he's sent, 
Plays havoc with your best per cent. 

Still still I meet you here and there . . . 
When Shakespeare's played you hold a chair, 
And some defunct, moth-eaten star 
Enchants the mental prig you are . . . 
A radical comes down and shocks 
The atheistic orthodox ? 
You're representing Common Sense, 
Mouth open, in the audience. 


And, sometimes, even chapel lures 
That conscious tolerance of yours, 
That broad and beaming view of truth 
(Including Kant and General Booth . . .) 
And so from shock to shock you live, 
A hollow, pale affirmative . . . 

The hour's up ... and roused from rest 
One hundred children of the blest 
Cheat you a word or two with feet 
That down the noisy aisle-ways beat . . . 
Forget on narrow-minded earth 
The Mighty Yawn that gave you birth." 

In April, Kerry Holiday left college and sailed for 
France to enroll in the Lafayette Esquadrille. Amory's 
envy and admiration of this step was drowned in an 
experience of his own to which he never succeeded in 
giving an appropriate value, but which, nevertheless, 
haunted him for three years afterward. 


Healy's they left at twelve and taxied to Bistolary's. 
There were Axia Marlowe and Phcebe Column, from the 
Summer Garden show, Fred Sloane and Amory. The 
evening was so very young that they felt ridiculous with 
surplus energy, and burst into the cafe like Dionysian 

"Table for four in the middle of the floor," yelled 
Phoebe. "Hurry, old dear, tell 'em we're here! " 

"Tell 'em to play 'Admiration'!" shouted Sloane. 
"You two order; Phcebe and I are going to shake a 
wicked calf," and they sailed off in the muddled crowd. 
Axia and Amory, acquaintances of an hour, jostled 
behind a waiter to a table at a point of vantage; there 
they took seats and watched. 


"There's Findle Margotson, from New Haven! " she 
cried above the uproar. "'Lo, Findle! Whoo-ee!" 

"Oh, Axia !" he shouted in salutation. "C'mon over 
to our table." 

"No !" Amory whispered. 

"Can't do it, Findle; I'm with somebody else! Call 
me up to-morrow about one o'clock ! " 

Findle, a nondescript man-about-Bisty's, answered 
incoherently and turned back to the brilliant blonde 
whom he was endeavoring to steer around the room. 

"There's a natural damn fool," commented Amory. 

"Oh, he's all right. Here's the old jitney waiter. If 
you ask me, I want a double Daiquiri." 

"Make it four." 

The crowd whirled and changed and shifted. They 
were mostly from the colleges, with a scattering of the 
male refuse of Broadway, and women of two types, the 
higher of which was the chorus girl. On the whole it 
was a typical crowd, and their party as typical as any. 
About three-fourths of the whole business was for effect 
and therefore harmless, ended at the door of the cafe, 
soon enough for the five-o'clock train back to Yale or 
Princeton; about one-fourth continued on into the dim- 
mer hours and gathered strange dust from strange places. 
Their party was scheduled to be one of the harmless 
kind. Fred Sloane and Phoebe Column were old friends; 
Axia and Amory new ones. But strange things are pre- 
pared even in the dead of night, and the unusual, which 
lurks least in the cafe, home of the prosaic and inevita- 
ble, was preparing to spoil for him the waning romance 
of Broadway. The way it took was so inexpressibly 
terrible, so unbelievable, that afterward he never 
thought of it as experience; but it was a scene from a 
misty tragedy, played far behind the veil, and that it 
meant something definite he knew. 


About one o'clock they moved to Maxim's, and two 
found them in Deviniere's. Sloane had been drinking 
consecutively and was in a state of unsteady exhilara- 
tion, but Amory was quite tiresomely sober; they had 
run across none of those ancient, corrupt buyers of 
champagne who usually assisted their New York parties. 

They were just through dancing and were making 
their way back to their chairs when Amory became 
aware that some one at a near-by table was looking at 
him. He turned and glanced casually ... a middle- 
aged man dressed in a brown sack suit, it was, sitting a 
little apart at a table by himself and watching their 
party intently. At Amory's glance he smiled faintly. 
Amory turned to Fred, who was just sitting down. 

"Who's that pale fool watching us?" he complained 

" Where?" cried Sloane. "We'll have him thrown 
out ! " He rose to his feet and swayed back and forth, 
clinging to his chair. "Where is he?" 

Axia and Phoebe suddenly leaned and whispered to 
each other across the table, and before Amory reafized 
it they found themselves on their way to the door. 

"Where now?" 

"Up to tke flat," suggested Phoebe. "We've got 
brandy and fizz and everything's slow down here to- 

Amory considered quickly. He hadn't been drink- 
ing, and decided that if he took no more, it would be 
reasonably discreet for him to trot along in the party. 
In fact, it would be, perhaps, the thing to do in order to 
keep an eye on Sloane, who was not in a state to do his 
own thinking. So he took Axia's arm and, piling inti- 
mately into a taxicab, they drove out over the hundreds 
and drew up at a tall, white-stone apartment-house. 
. . . Never would he forget that street. ... It was 


a broad street, lined on both sides with just such tall, 
white-stone buildings, dotted with dark windows; they 
stretched along as far as the eye could see, flooded with 
a bright moonlight that gave them a calcium pallor. 
He imagined each one to have an elevator and a colored 
hall-boy and a key-rack; each one to be eight stories 
high and full of three and four room suites. He was 
rather glad to walk into the cheeriness of Phoebe's liv- 
ing-room and sink onto a sofa, while the girls went rum- 
maging for food. 

"Phoebe's great stuff," confided Sloane, sotto voce. 

"I'm only going to stay half an hour," Amory said 
sternly. He wondered if it sounded priggish. 

"Hell y' say," protested Sloane. "We're here now 
don't le's rush." 

"I don't like this place," Amory said sulkily, "and I 
don't want any food." 

Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, 
siphon, and four glasses. 

"Amory, pour 'em out," she said, "and we'll drink 
to Fred Sloane, who has a rare, distinguished edge." 

"Yes," said Axia, coming in, "and Amory. I like 
Amory." She sat down beside him and laid her yellow 
head on his shoulder. 

"I'll pour," said Sloane; "you use siphon, Phoebe." 

They filled the tray with glasses. 

"Ready, here she goes ! " 

Amory hesitated, glass in hand. 

There was a minute while temptation crept over him 
like a warm wind, and his imagination turned to fire, 
and he took the glass from Phoebe's hand. That was 
all; for at the second that his decision came, he looked 
up and saw, ten yards from him, the man who had been 
in the cafe, and with his jump of astonishment the glass 
fell from his upMfted hand. There the man half sat, 


half leaned against a pile of pillows on the corner divan. 
His face was cast in the same yellow wax as in the cafe, 
neither the dull, pasty color of a dead man rather a 
sort of virile pallor nor unhealthy, you'd have called 
it; but like a strong man who'd worked in a mine or 
done night shifts in a damp climate. Amory looked 
him over carefully and later he could have drawn him 
after a fashion, down to the merest details. His mouth 
was the kind that is called frank, and he had steady 
gray eyes that moved slowly from one to the other of 
their group, with just the shade of a questioning ex- 
pression. Amory noticed his hands; they weren't fine 
at all, but they had versatility and a tenuous strength 
. . . they were nervous hands that sat lightly along the 
cushions and moved constantly with little jerky open- 
ings and closings. Then, suddenly, Amory perceived 
the feet, and with a rush of blood to the head he realized 
he was afraid. The feet were all wrong . . . with a 
sort of wrongness that he felt rather than knew. . . . 
It was like weakness in a good woman, or blood on 
satin; one of those terrible incongruities that shake lit- 
tle things in the back ot tne Drain. He wore no shoes, 
but, instead, a sort of half moccasin, pointed, though, 
like the shoes they wore in the fourteenth century, and 
with the little ends curling up. They were a darkish 
brown and his toes seemed to fill them to the end. . . , 
They were unutterably terrible. . . . 

He must have said something, or looked something, 
for Axia's voice came out of the void with a strange 

"Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory 's sick old 
head going 'round?" 

"Look at that man!" cried Amory, pointing toward 
the corner divan. 

"You mean that purple zebra!" shrieked Axia face- 


tiously. "Ooo-ee! Amory's got a purple zebra watch- 
ing him ! " 

Sloane laughed vacantly. 

"Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?" 

There was a silence. . . . The man regarded Amory 
quizzically. . . . Then the human voices fell faintly 
on his ear: 

"Thought you weren't drinking/' remarked Axia sar- 
donically, but her voice was good to hear; the whole 
divan that held the man was alive; alive like heat waves 
over asphalt, like wriggling worms. . . . 

" Come back ! Come back ! " Axia's arm fell on his. 
"Amory, dear, you aren't going, Amory!" He was 
half-way to the door. 

"Come on, Amory, stick 'th us !" 

"Sick, are you?" 

"Sit down a second!" 

"Take some water." 

"Take a little brandy. . . ." 

The elevator was close, and the colored boy was half 
asleep, paled to a livid bronze . . . Axia's beseeching 
voice floated down the shaft. Those feet . . . those 
feet . . . 

As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into 
view in the sickly electric light of the paved hall. 


Down the long street came the moon, and Amory 
turned his back on it and walked. Ten, fifteen steps 
away sounded the footsteps. They were like a slow 
dripping, with just the slightest insistence in their fall. 
Amory's shadow lay, perhaps, ten feet ahead of him, 
and soft shoes was presumably that far behind. With 
the instinct of a child Amory edged in under the blue 


darkness of the white buildings, cleaving the moonlight 
for haggard seconds, once bursting into a slow run with 
clumsy stumblings. After that he stopped suddenly; he 
must keep hold, he thought. His lips were dry and he 
licked them. 

If he met any one good were there any good people 
left in the world or did they all live in white apartment- 
houses now ? Was every one followed in the moonlight ? 
But if he met some one good who'd know what he meant 
and hear this damned scuffle . . . then the scuffling 
grew suddenly nearer, and a black cloud settled over 
the moon. When again the pale sheen skimmed the 
cornices, it was almost beside him, and Amory thought 
he heard a quiet breathing. Suddenly he realized that 
the footsteps were not behind, had never been behind, 
they were ahead and he was not eluding but following 
. . . following. He began to run, blindly, his heart 
knocking heavily, his hands clinched. Far ahead a 
black dot showed itself, resolved slowly into a human 
shape. But Amory was beyond that now; he turned 
off tke street and darted into an alley, narrow and dark 
and smelling of old rottenness. He twisted down a 
long, sinuous blackness, where the moonlight was shut 
away except for tiny glints and patches . . . then sud- 
denly sank panting into a corner by a fence, exhausted. 
The steps ahead stopped, and he could hear them shift 
slightly with a continuous motion, like waves around a 

He put his face in his hands and covered eyes and 
ears as well as he could. During all this time it never 
occurred to him that he was delirious or drunk. He had 
a sense of reality such as material things could never 
give him. His intellectual content seemed to submit 
passively to it, and it fitted like a glove everything that 
had ever preceded it in his life. It did not muddle hinic 


It was like a problem whose answer he knew on paper, 
yet whose solution he was unable to grasp. He was far 
beyond horror. He had sunk through the thin surface 
of that, now moved in a region where the feet and the 
fear of white walls were real, living things, things he 
must accept. Only far inside his soul a little fire leaped 
and cried that something was pulling him down, trying 
to get him inside a door and slam it behind him. After 
that door was slammed there would be only footfalls 
and white buildings in the moonlight, and perhaps he 
would be one of the footfalls. 

During the five or ten minutes he waited in the shadow 
of the fence, there was somehow this fire . . . that was 
as near as he could name it afterward. He remembered 
calling aloud: 

" I want some one stupid. Oh, send some one stupid ! " 
This to the black fence opposite him, in whose shadows 
the footsteps shuffled . . . shuffled. He supposed " stu- 
pid" and "good" had become somehow intermingled 
through previous association. When he called thus it 
was not an act of will at all will had turned him away 
from the moving figure in the street; it was almost in- 
stinct that called, just the pile on pile of inherent tra- 
dition or some wild prayer from way over the night. 
Then something clanged like a low gong struck at a dis- 
tance, and before his eyes a face flashed over the two 
feet, a face pale and distorted with a sort of infinite evil 
that twisted it like flame in the wind; but he knew, for 
the half instant that tJte gong tanged and hummed, that it 
was the face of Dick Humbird. 

Minutes later he sprang to his feet, realizing dimly 
that there was no more sound, and that he was alone in 
the graying alley. It was cold, and he started on a 
steady run for the light that showed the street at the 
other end. 



It was late morning when he woke and found the tele- 
phone beside his bed in the hotel tolling frantically, and 
remembered that he had left word to be called at eleven. 
Sloane was snoring heavily, his clothes in a pile by his 
bed. They dressed and ate breakfast in silence, and 
then sauntered out to get some air. Amory's mind was 
working slowly, trying to assimilate what had happened 
and separate from the chaotic imagery that stacked his 
memory the bare shreds of truth. If the morning had 
been cold and gray he could have grasped the reins of 
the past in an instant, but it was one of those days that 
New York gets sometimes in May, when the air on 
Fifth Avenue is a soft, light wine. How much or how 
little Sloane remembered Amory did not care to know; 
he apparently had none of the nervous tension that was 
gripping Amory and forcing his mind back and forth 
like a shrieking saw. 

Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel 
of noise and the painted faces a sudden sickness rushed 
over Amory. 

"For God's sake, let's go back ! Let's get off of this 
this place!" 

Sloane looked at him in amazement. 

"What do you mean?" 

"This street, it's ghastly! Come on! let's get back 
to the Avenue ! " 

"Do you mean to say," said Sloane stolidly, "that 
'cause you had some sort of indigestion that made you 
act like a maniac last night, you're never coming on 
Broadway again?" 

Simultaneously Amory classed him with the crowd, 
and he seemed no longer Sloane of the debonair humor 


and the Lappy personality, but only one of the evil 
faces that whirled along the turbid stream. 

"Man!" he shouted so loud that the people on the 
corner turned and followed them with their eyes, "it's 
filthy, and if you can't see it, you're filthy, too !" 

"I can't help it," said Sloane doggedly. "What's the 
matter with you? Old remorse getting you? You'd 
be in a fine state if you'd gone through with our little 

"I'm going, Fred," said Amory slowly. His knees 
were shaking under him, and he knew that if he stayed 
another minute on this street he would keel over where 
he stood. "I'll be at the Vanderbilt for lunch." And 
he strode rapidly off and turned over to Fifth Avenue. 
Back at the hotel he felt better, but as he walked into 
the barber-shop, intending to get a head massage, the 
smell of the powders and tonics brought back Axia's 
sidelong, suggestive smile, and he left hurriedly. In 
the doorway of his room a sudden blackness flowed 
around him like a divided river. 

When he came to himself he knew that several hours 
had passed. He pitched onto the bed and rolled over 
on his face with a deadly fear that he was going mad. 
He wanted people, people, some one sane and stupid 
and good. He lay for he knew not how long without 
moving. He could feel the little hot veins on his fore- 
head standing out, and his terror had hardened on him 
like plaster. He felt he was passing up again through 
the thin crust of horror, and now only could he distin- 
guish the shadowy twilight he was leaving. He must 
have fallen asleep again, for when he next recollected 
himself he had paid the hotel bill and was stepping into 
a taxi at the door. It was raining torrents. 

On the train for Princeton he saw no one he knew, 
only a crowd of fagged-looking Philadelphians. The 


presence of a painted woman across the aisle filled him 
with a fresh burst of sickness and he changed to another 
car, tried to concentrate on an article in a popular mag- 
azine. He found himself reading the same paragraphs 
over and over, so he abandoned this attempt and lean- 
ing over wearily pressed his hot forehead against the 
damp window-pane. The car, a smoker, was hot and 
stuffy with most of the smells of the state's alien popu- 
lation; he opened a window and shivered against the 
cloud of fog that drifted in over him. The two hours' 
ride were like days, and he nearly cried aloud with joy 
when the towers of Princeton loomed up beside him 
and the yellow squares of light filtered through the blue 

Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively 
relighting a cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather 
relieved oh seeing him. 

"Had a hell of a dream about you last night," came 
in the cracked voice through the cigar smoke. "I had 
an idea you were in some trouble." 

"Don't tell me about it!" Amory almost shrieked. 
"Don't say a word; I'm tired and pepped out." 

Tom looked at him queerly and then sank into a chair 
and opened his Italian note-book. Amory threw his 
coat and hat on the floor, loosened his collar, and took 
a Wells novel at random from the shelf. "Wells is 
sane," he thought, "and if he won't do I'll read Rupert 

Half an hour passed. Outside the wind came up, and 
Amory started as the wet branches moved and clawed 
with their finger-nails at the window-pane. Tom was 
deep in his work, and inside the room only the occasional 
scratch of a match or the rustle of leather as they shifted 
in their chairs broke the stillness. Then like a zigzag 
of lightning came the change. Amory sat bolt upright, 


frozen cold in his chair. Tom was looking at him with 
his mouth drooping, eyes fixed. 

" God help us ! " Amory cried. 

"Oh, my heavens!" shouted Tom, "look behind!" 
Quick as a flash Amory whirled around. He saw noth- 
ing but the dark window-pane. 

"It's gone now," came Tom's voice after a second in 
a still terror. "Something was looking at you." 

Trembling violently, Amory dropped into his chair 

"I've got to tell you," he said. "I've had one hell of 
an experience. I think IVe I've seen the devil or 
something like him. What face did you just see? or 
no," he added quickly, "don't tell me!" 

And he gave Tom the story. It was midnight when 
he finished, and after that, with all lights burning, two 
sleepy, shivering boys rea'd to each other from "The 
New Machiavelli," until dawn came up out of Wither- 
spoon Hall, and the Princetonian fell against the door, 
and the May birds hailed the sun on last night's rain. 


DURING Princeton's transition period, that is, during 
Amory's last two years there, while he saw it change 
and broaden and live up to its Gothic beauty by better 
means than night parades, certain individuals arrived 
who stirred it to its plethoric depths. Some of them 
had been freshmen, and wild freshmen, with Amory; 
some were in the class below; and it was in the beginning 
of his last year and around small tables at the Nassau 
Inn that they began questioning aloud the institutions 
that Amory and countless others before him had ques- 
tioned so long in secret. First, and partly by accident, 
they struck on certain books, a definite type of biograph- 
ical novel that Amory christened "quest" books. In 
the "quest" book the hero set off in life armed with the 
best weapons and avowedly intending to use them as 
such weapons are usually used, to push their possessors 
ahead as selfishly and blindly as possible, but the heroes 
of the "quest" books discovered that there might be a 
more magnificent use for them. "None Other Gods," 
"Sinister Street," and "The Research Magnificent" 
were examples of such books; it was the latter of these 
three that gripped Burne Holiday and made him won- 
der in the beginning of senior year how much it was 
worth while being a diplomatic autocrat around his 
club on Prospect Avenue and basking in the high lights 
of class office. It was distinctly through the channels 
of aristocracy that Burne found his way. Amory, 
through Kerry, had had a vague drifting acquaintance 



with him, but not until January of senior year did their 
friendship commence. 

"Heard the latest?" said Tom, coming in late one 
drizzly evening with that triumphant air he always wore 
after a successful conversational bout. 

"No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship 

"Worse than that. About one- third of the junior 
class are going to resign from their clubs." 


"Actual fact!" 


"Spirit of reform and all that. Burne Holiday is be- 
hind it. The club presidents are holding a meeting to- 
night to see if they can find a joint means of combat- 
ing it." 

"Well, what's the idea of the thing?" 

"Oh, clubs injurious to Princeton democracy; cost a 
lot; draw social lines, take time; the regular line you 
get sometimes from disappointed sophomores. Wood- 
row thought they should be abolished and all that." 

"But this is the real thing?" 

"Absolutely. I think it'll go through." 

"For Pete's sake, tell me more about it." 

"Well," began Tom, "it seems that the idea developed 
simultaneously in several heads. I was talking to 
Burne awhile ago, and he claims that it's a logical result 
if an intelligent person thinks long enough about the 
social system. They had a 'discussion crowd' and the 
point of abolishing the clubs was brought up by some 
one everybody there leaped at it it had been in each 
one's mind, more or less, and it just needed a spark to 
bring it out." 

"Fine! I swear I think it'll be most entertaining. 
How do they feel up at Cap and Gown?" 


"Wild, of course. Every one's been sitting and argu- 
ing and swearing and getting mad and getting senti- 
mental and getting brutal. It's the same at all the 
clubs; I've been the rounds. . They get one of the radi- 
cals in the corner and fire questions at him." 

"How do the radicals stand up?" 

"Oh, moderately well. Burne's a damn good talker, 
and so obviously sincere that you can't get anywhere 
with him. It's so evident that resigning from his club 
means so much more to him than preventing it does to 
us that I felt futile when I argued; finally took a posi- 
tion that was brilliantly neutral. In fact, I believe 
Burne thought for a while that he'd converted me." 

"And you say almost a third of the junior class are 
going to resign ? " 

"Call it a fourth and be safe." 

"Lord who'd have thought it possible!" 

There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne him- 
self came in. 

"Hello, Amory hello, Tom." 

Amory rose. 

"'Evening, Burne. Don't mind if I seem to rush; 
I'm going to Renwick's." 

Burne turned to him quickly. 

"You probably know what I want to talk to Tom 
about, and it isn't a bit private. I wish you'd stay." 

"I'd be glad to." Amory sat down again, and as 
Burne perched on a table and launched into argument 
with Tom, he looked at this revolutionary more carefully 
than he ever had before. Broad-browed and strong- 
chinned, with a fineness in the honest gray eyes that 
were like Kerry's, Burne was a man who gave an imme- 
diate impression of bigness and security stubborn, that 
was evident, but his stubbornness wore no stolidity, 
and when he had talked for five minutes Amory knew 


that this keen enthusiasm had in it no quality of dilet- 

The intense power Amory felt later in Burne Holiday 
differed from the admiration he had had for Humbird. 
This time it began as purely a mental interest. With 
other men of whom he had thought as primarily first- 
class, he had been attracted first by their personalities, 
and in Burne he missed that immediate magnetism to 
which he usually swore allegiance. But that night 
Amory was struck by Burne's intense earnestness, a 
quality he was accustomed to associate only with the 
dread stupidity, and by the great enthusiasm that 
struck dead chords in his heart. Burne stood vaguely 
for a land Amory hoped he was drifting toward and it 
was almost time that land was in sight. Tom and Amory 
and Alec had reached an impasse; never did they seem 
to have new experiences in common, for Tom and Alec 
had been as blindly busy with their committees and 
boards as Amory had been blindly idling, and the things 
they had for dissection college, contemporary person- 
ality and the like they had hashed and rehashed for 
many a frugal conversational meal. 

That night they discussed the dubs until twelve, and, 
in the main, they agreed with Burne. To the room- 
mates it did not seem such a vital subject as it had in 
the two years before, but the logic of Burne's objections 
to the social system dovetailed so completely with 
everything they had thought, that they questioned 
rather than argued, and envied the sanity that enabled 
this man to stand out so against all traditions. 

Then Amory branched off and found that Burne was 
deep in other things as well. Economics had interested 
him and he was turning socialist. Pacifism played in 
the back of his mind, and he read the Masses and Lyoff 
Tolstoi faithfully. 


"How about religion?" Amory asked him. 

"Don't know. I'm in a muddle about a lot of things 
I've just discovered that I've a mind, and I'm start- , 
ing to read." 

"Read what?" 

"Everything. I have to pick and choose, of course, 
but mostly things to make me think. I'm reading the 
four gospels now, and the 'Varieties of Religious Experi- 

"What chiefly started you?" 

"Wells, I guess, and Tolstoi, and a man named 
Edward Carpenter. I've been reading for over & year 
now on a few lines, on what I consider the essential 


"Well, frankly, not what you call poetry, or for your 
reasons you two write, of course, and look at things 
differently. Whitman is the man that attracts me." 


"Yes; he's a definite ethical force." 

"Well, I'm ashamed to say that I'm a blank on the 
subject of Whitman. How about you, Tom?" 

Tom nodded sheepishly. 

"Well," continued Burne, "you may strike a few 
poems that are tiresome, but I mean the mass of his 
work. He's tremendous like Tolstoi. They both look 
things in the face, and, somehow, different as they are, 
stand for somewhat the same things." 

"You have me stumped, Burne," Amory admitted. 
"I've read 'Anna Kar6nina' and the 'Kreutzer Sonata* 
of course, but Tolstoi is mostly in the original Russian 
as far as I'm concerned." 

"He's the greatest man in hundreds of years," cried 
Burne enthusiastically. "Did you ever see a picture of 
that shaggy old head of his?" 


They talked until three, from biology to organized 
religion, and when Amory crept shivering into bed it 
was with his mind aglow with ideas and a sense of shock 
that some one else had discovered the path he might 
have followed. Burne Holiday was so evidently devel- 
oping and Amory had considered that he was doing 
the same. He had fallen into a deep cynicism over 
what had crossed his path, plotted the imperfectability 
of man and read Shaw and Chesterton enough to keep 
his mind from the edges of decadence now suddenly 
all his mental processes of the last year and a half seemed 
stale and futile a petty consummation of himself . . . 
and like a sombre background lay that incident of the 
spring before, that filled half his nights with a dreary 
terror and made him unable to pray. He was not even 
a Catholic, yet that was the only ghost of a code that 
he had, the gaudy, ritualistic, paradoxical Catholicism 
whose prophet was Chesterton, whose claqueurs were 
such reformed rakes of literature as Huysmans and 
Bourget, whose American sponsor was Ralph Adams 
Cram, with his adulation of thirteenth-century cathe- 
drals a Catholicism which Amory found convenient 
and ready-made, without priest or sacraments or sac- 

He could not sleep, so he turned on his reading-lamp 
and, taking down the "Kreutzer Sonata," searched it 
carefully for the germs of Burne's enthusiasm. Being 
Burne was suddenly so much realler than being clever. 
Yet he sighed . . . here were other possible clay feet. 

He thought back through two years, of Burne as a 
hurried, nervous freshman, quite submerged in his 
brother's personality. Then he remembered an incident 
of sophomore year, in which Burne had been suspected 
of the leading role. 

Dean Hollister had been heard by a large group argu- 
ing with a taxi-driver, who had driven him from the 


junction. In the course of the altercation the dean 
remarked that he "might as well buy the taxicab." He 
paid and walked off, but next morning he entered his 
private office to find the taxicab itself in the space usu- 
ally occupied by his desk, bearing a sign which read 
"Property of Dean Hollister. Bought and Paid for." 
... It took two expert mechanics half a day to dis- 
semble it into its minutest parts and remove it, which 
only goes to prove the rare energy of sophomore humor 
under efficient leadership. 

Then again, that very fall, Burne had caused a sensa- 
tion. A certain Phyllis Styles, an intercollegiate prom- 
trotter, had failed to get her yearly invitation to the 
Harvard-Princeton game. 

Jesse Ferrenby had brought her to a smaller game a 
few weeks before, and had pressed Burne into service 
to the ruination of the latter's misogyny. 

"Are you coming to the Harvard game?" Burne had 
asked indiscreetly, merely to make conversation. 

"If you ask me," cried Phyllis quickly. 

"Of course I do," said Burne feebly. He was un- 
versed in the arts of Phyllis, and was sure that this was 
merely a vapid form of kidding. Before an hour had 
passed he knew that he was indeed involved. Phyllis 
had pinned him down and served him up, informed him 
the train she was arriving by, and depressed him thor- 
oughly. Aside from loathing Phyllis, he had particu- 
larly wanted to stag that game and entertain some Har- 
vard friends. 

"She'll see," he informed a delegation who arrived in 
his room to josh him. "This will be the last game she 
ever persuades any young innocent to take her to ! " 

" But, Burne why did you invite her if you didn't 
want her?" 

"Burne, you know you're secretly mad about her 
that's the real trouble." 


"What can you do, Burne? What can you do against 

But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats 
which consisted largely of the phrase: "She'll see, she'll 

The blithesome Phyllis bore her twenty-five summers 
gayly from the train, but on the platform a ghastly sight 
met her eyes. There were Burne and Fred Sloane 
arrayed to the last dot like the lurid figures on college 
posters. They had bought flaring suits with huge peg- 
top trousers and gigantic padded shoulders. On their 
heads were rakish college hats, pinned up in front and 
sporting bright orange-and-black bands, while from 
their celluloid collars blossomed flaming orange ties. 
They wore black arm-bands with orange "P's," and 
carried canes flying Princeton pennants, the effect com- 
pleted by socks and peeping handkerchiefs in the same 
color motifs. On a clanking chain they led a large, 
angry tom-cat, painted to represent a tiger. 

A good hah 7 of the station crowd was already staring 
at them, torn between horrified pity and riotous mirth, 
and as Phyllis, with her svelte jaw dropping, approached, 
the pair bent over and emitted a college cheer in 
loud, far-carrying voices, thoughtfully adding the name 
"Phyllis" to the end. She was vociferously greeted and 
escorted enthusiastically across the campus, followed by 
half a hundred village urchins to the stifled laughter 
of hundreds of alumni and visitors, half of whom had 
no idea that this was a practical joke, but thought that 
Burne and Fred were two varsity sports showing their 
girl a collegiate time. 

Phyllis's feelings as she was paraded by the Harvard 
and Princeton stands, where sat dozens of her former 
devotees, can be imagined. She tried to walk a little 
ahead, she tried to walk a little behind but they 
stayed close, that there should be no doubt whom she 


was with, talking in loud voices of their friends on the 
football team, until she could almost hear her ac- 
quaintances whispering: 

"Phyllis Styles must be awfully hard up to have to 
come with those two." 

That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, funda- 
mentally serious. From that root had blossomed the 
energy that he was now trying to orient with prog- 
ress. . . . 

So the weeks passed and March came and the clay 
feet that Amory looked for failed to appear. About a 
hundred juniors and seniors resigned from their clubs 
in a final fury of righteousness, and the clubs in helpless- 
ness turned upon Burne their finest weapon: ridicule. 
Every one who knew him liked him but what he stood 
for (and he began to stand for more all the time) came 
under the lash of many tongues, until a frailer man than 
he would have been snowed under. 

"Don't you mind losing prestige?" asked Amory one 
night. They had taken to exchanging calls several 
time a week. 

"Of course I don't. What's prestige, at best?" 

"Some people say that you're just a rather original 

He roared with laughter. 

"That's what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose 
I have it coming." 

One afternoon they dipped into a subject that had 
interested Amory for a long time the matter of the 
bearing of physical attributes on a man's make-up. 
Burne had gone into the biology of this, and then: 

"Of course health counts a healthy man has twice 
the chance of being good," he said. 

"I don't agree with you I don't believe in 'muscular 
Christianity/ " 

"I do I believe Christ had great physical vigor." 


"Oh, no," Amory protested. "He worked too hard 
for that. I imagine that when he died he was a broken- 
down man and the great saints haven't been strong." 

"Half of them have." 

"Well, even granting that, I don't think health has 
anything to do with goodness; of course, it's valuable to a 
great saint to be able to stand enormous strains, but 
this fad of popular preachers rising on their toes in 
simulated virility, bellowing that calisthenics will save 
the world no, Burne, I can't go that." 

"Well, let's waive it we won't get anywhere, and be- 
sides I haven't quite made up my mind about it myself. 
Now, here's something I do know personal appearance 
has a lot to do with it." 

"Coloring?" Amory asked eagerly. 


"That's what Tom and I figured," Amory agreed. 
"We took the year-books for the last ten years and 
looked at the pictures of the senior council. I know you 
don't think much of that august body, but it does repre- 
sent success here in a general way. Well, I suppose 
only about thirty-five per cent of every class here are 
blonds, are really light yet two-thirds of every senior 
council are light. We looked at pictures of ten years of 
them, mind you; that means that out of every fifteen 
light-haired men in the senior class one is on the senior 
council, and of the dark-haired men it's only one in fifty ." 

"It's true," Burne agreed. "The light-haired man is 
a higher type, generally speaking. I worked the thing 
out with the Presidents of the United States once, and 
found that way over half of them were light-haired 
yet tHnk of the preponderant number of brunettes in 
the race." 

"People unconsciously admit it," said Amory. 
"You'll notice a blond person is expected to talk. If a 


blond girl doesn't talk we call her a 'doll'; if a light- 
haired man is silent he's considered stupid. Yet the 
world is full of 'dark silent men' and 'languorous bru- 
nettes ' who haven't a brain in their heads, but somehow 
are never accused of the dearth." 

"And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big 
nose undoubtedly make the superior face." 

"I'm not so sure." Amory was all for classical fea- 

"Oh, yes I'll show you," and Burne pulled out of 
his desk a photographic collection of heavily bearded, 
shaggy celebrities Tolstoi, Whitman, Carpenter, and 

" Aren't they wonderful?" 

Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up 

"Burne, I think they're the ugliest-looking crowd I 
ever came across. They look like an old man's home." 

"Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look 
at Tolstoi's eyes." His tone was reproachful. 

Amory shook his head. 

" No ! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you 
want but ugly they certainly are." 

Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the 
spacious foreheads, and piling up the pictures put them 
back in his desk. 

Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and 
one night he persuaded Amory to accompany him. 

"I hate the dark," Amory objected. "I didn't use 
to except when I was particularly imaginative, but 
now, I really do I'm a regular fool about it" 

"That's useless, you know." 

"Quite possibly." 

"We'll go east," Burne suggested, "and down that 
string of roads through the woods." 


"Doesn't sound very appealing to me," admitted 
Amory reluctantly, "but let's go." 

They set off at a good gait, and for an hour swung 
along in a brisk argument until the lights of Princeton 
were luminous white blots behind them. 

"Any person with any imagination is bound to be 
afraid," said Burne earnestly. "And this very walking 
at night is one of the things I was afraid about. I'm 
going to tell you why I can walk anywhere now and 
not be afraid." 

"Go on," Amory urged eagerly. They were striding 
toward the woods, Burne's nervous, enthusiastic voice 
warming to his subject. 

"I used to come out here alone at night, oh, three 
months ago, and I always stopped at that cross-road we 
just passed. There were the woods looming up ahead, 
just as they do now, there were dogs howling and 
the shadows and no human sound. Of course, I peopled 
the woods with everything ghastly, just like you do; 
don't you?" 

"I do," Amory admitted. 

"Well, I began analyzing it my imagination per- 
sisted in sticking horrors into the dark so I stuck my 
imagination into the dark instead, and let it look out 
at me I let it play stray dog or escaped convict or 
ghost, and then saw myself coming along the road. 
That made it all right as it always makes everything 
all right to project yourself completely into another's 
place. I knew that if I were the dog or the convict or 
the ghost I wouldn't be a menace to Burne Holiday any 
more than he was a menace to me. Then I thought of 
my watch. I'd better go back and leave it and then 
essay the woods. No; I decided, it's better on the whole 
that I should lose a watch than that I should turn back 
and I did go into them not only followed the road 


through them, but walked into them until I wasn't 
frightened any more did it until one night I sat down 
and dozed off in there; then I knew I was through being 
afraid of the dark." 

"Lordy," Amory breathed. "I couldn't have done 
that. I'd have come out half-way, and the first time an 
automobile passed and made the dark thicker when its 
lamps disappeared, I'd have come in." 

"Well," Burne said suddenly, after a few moments' 
silence, "we're half-way through, let's turn back." 

On the return he launched into a discussion of will. 

"It's the whole thing," he asserted. "It's the one 
dividing line between good and evil. I've never met a 
man who led a rotten life and didn't have a weak will." 

"How about great criminals?" 

"They're usually insane. If not, they're weak. 
There is no such thihg as a strong, sane criminal." 

"Burne, I disagree with you altogether; how about 
the superman?" 


"He's evil, I think, yet he's strong and sane." 

"I've never met him. I'll bet, though, that he's stupid 
or insane." 

"I've met him over and over and he's neither. That's 
why I think you're wrong." 

"I'm sure I'm not and so I don't believe in impris- 
onment except for the insane." 

On this point Amory could not agree. It seemed to 
him that lif e and history were rife with the strong crim- 
inal, keen, but often self-deluding; in politics and busi- 
ness one found him and among the old statesmen and 
kings and generals; but Burne never agreed and their 
courses began to split on that point. 

Burne was drawing farther and farther away from the 
world about him. He resigned the vice-presidency of the 


senior class and took to reading and walking as almost 
his only pursuits. He voluntarily attended graduate 
lectures in philosophy and biology, and sat in all of them 
with a rather pathetically intent look in his eyes, as if 
waiting for something the lecturer would never quite 
come to. Sometimes Amory would see him squirm in 
his seat; and his face would light up; he was on fire to 
debate a point. 

He grew more abstracted on the street and was even 
accused of becoming a snob, but Amory knew it was 
nothing of the sort, and once when Burne passed him 
four feet off, absolutely unseeingly, his mind a thousand 
miles away, Amory almost choked with the romantic 
joy of watching him. Burne seemed to be climbing 
heights where others would be forever unable to get a 

"I tell you," Amory declared to Tom, "he's the first 
contemporary I've ever met whom I'll admit is my 
superior in mental capacity." 

"It's a bad time to achnit it people are beginning 
to think he's odd." 

"He's way over their heads you know you think so 
yourself when you talk to him Good Lord, Tom, you 
used to stand out against 'people.' Success has com- 
pletely conventionalized you." 

Tom grew rather annoyed. 

"What's he trying to do be excessively holy?" 

"No! not like anybody you've ever seen. Never 
enters the Philadelphian Society. He has no faith in 
that rot He doesn't believe that public swimming- 
pools and a kind word in time will right the wrongs of 
the world; moreover, he takes a drink whenever he feels 
like it" 

"He certainly is getting in wrong." 

"Have you talked to him lately?" 



"Then you haven't any conception of him." 

The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed 
more than ever how the sentiment toward Burne had 
changed on the campus. 

"It's odd," Amory said to Tom one night when they 
had grown more amicable on the subject, "that the 
people who violently disapprove of Burne's radicalism 
are distinctly the Pharisee class I mean they're the 
best-educated men in college the editors of the papers, 
like yourself and Ferrenby, the younger professors. . . . 
The illiterate athletes like Langueduc think he's getting 
eccentric, but they just say, 'Good old Burne has got 
some queer ideas in his head/ and pass on the Pharisee 
class Gee ! they ridicule him unmercifully." 

The next morning he met Burne hurrying along 
McCosh walk after a recitation. 

"Whither bound, Tsar?" 

"Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby," he waved 
a copy of the morning's Princetonian at Amory. "He 
wrote this editorial." 

"Going to flay him alive?" 

"No but he's got me all balled up. Either I've 
misjudged him, or he's suddenly become the world's 
worst radical." 

Burne hurried on, and it was several days before 
Amory heard an account of the ensuing conversation. 
Burne had come into the editor's sanctum displaying 
the paper cheerfully. 

"Hello, Jesse." 

"Hello there, Savonarola." 

"I just read your editorial." 

"Good boy didn't know you stooped that low." 

"Jesse, you startled me." 

"How so?" 


"Aren't you afraid the faculty'll get after you if you 
pull this irreligious stuff?" 


"Like this morning." 

"What the devil that editorial was on the coaching 

"Yes, but that quotation " 

Jesse sat up. 

"What quotation?" 

"You know: 'He who is not with me is against me.' " 

"Well what about it?" 

Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed. 

"Well, you say here let me see." Burne opened the 
paper and read: " 'He who is not with me is against me, 
as that gentleman said who was notoriously capable of 
only coarse distinctions and puerile generalities.' " 

"What of it?" Ferrenby began to look alarmed. 
" Oliver Cromwell said it, didin't he? or was it Washing- 
ton, or one of the saints? Good Lord, I've forgotten." 

Burne roared with laughter. 

"Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse." 

"Who said it, for Pete's sake?" 

"Well," said Burne, recovering his voice, "St. Mat- 
thew attributes it to Christ." 

"My God !" cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into 
the waste-basket. 


The weeks tore by. Amory wandered occasionally to 
New York on the chance of finding a new shining green 
auto-bus, that its stick-of-candy glamour might pene- 
trate his disposition. One day he ventured into a stock- 
company revival of a play whose name was faintly 
familiar. The curtain rose he watched casually as a 


girl entered. A few phrases rang in his ear and touched 
a faint chord of memory. Where ? When ? 

Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside 
him, a very soft, vibrant voice: "Oh, I'm such a poor 
little fool; do tell me when I do wrong." 

The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad 
memory of Isabelle. 

He found a blank space on his programme, and began 
to scribble rapidly: 

"Here in the figured dark I watch once more, 
There, with the curtain, roll the years away; 
Two years of years there was an idle day 

Of ours, when happy endings didn't bore 

Our unfermented souls; I could adore 

Your eager face beside me, wide-eyed, gay, 
Smiling a repertoire while the poor play 

Reached me as a faint ripple reaches shore. 

Yawning and wondering an evening through, 
I watch alone . . . and chatterings, of course, 
Spoil the one scene which, somehow, did have charms; 

You wept a bit, and I grew sad for you 
Right here ! Where Mr. X defends divorce 
And What's-Her-Name falls fainting in his arms." 


"Ghosts are such dumb things," said Alec, "they're 
slow-witted. I can always outguess a 'ghost." 

"How?" asked Tom. 

"Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for ex- 
ample. If you use any discretion a ghost can never get 
you in a bedroom." 

"Go on, s'pose you think there's maybe a ghost in 
your bedroom what measures do you take on getting 
home at night?" demanded Amory, interested. 

"Take a stick," answered Alec, with ponderous rever- 


ence, "one about the length of a broom-handle. Now, 
the first thing to do is to get the room cleared to do 
this you rush with your eyes closed into your study and 
turn on the lights next, approaching the closet, care- 
fully run the stick in the door three or four times. Then, 
if nothing happens, you can look in. Always, always 
run the stick in viciously first never look first ! " 

"Of course, that's the ancient Celtic school," said 
Tom gravely. 

"Yes but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use 
this method to clear the closets and also for behind all 
doors " 

"And the bed," Amory suggested. 

"Oh, Amory, no!" cried Alec in horror. "That isn't 
the way the bed requires different tactics let the bed 
alone, as you value your reason if there is a ghost in 
the room and that's only about a third of the time, it 
is almost always under the bed." 

"Well" Amory began. 

Alec waved him into silence. 

"Of course you never look. You stand in the middle 
of the floor and before he knows what you're going to 
do make a sudden leap for the bed never walk near 
the bed; to a ghost your ankle is your most vulnerable 
part once in bed, you're safe; he may fie around un- 
der the bed all night, but you're safe as daylight. If 
you still have doubts pull the blanket over your head." 

"All that's very interesting, Tom." 

"Isn't it?" Alec beamed proudly. "All my own, too 
the Sir Oliver Lodge of the new world." 

Amory was enjoying college immensely again. The 
sense of going forward in a direct, determined line had 
come back; youth was stirring and shaking out a few 
new feathers. He had even stored enough surplus en- 
ergy to sally into a new pose. 


"What's the idea of all this 'distracted ' stuff, Amory ? " 
asked Alec one day, and then as Amory pretended to be 
cramped over his book in a daze: "Oh, don't try to act 
Burne, the mystic, to me." 

Amory looked up innocently. 


"What?" mimicked Alec. "Are you trying to read 
yourself into a rhapsody with let's see the book." 

He snatched it; regarded it derisively. 

"Well?" said Amory a little stiffly. 

" 'The Life of St. Teresa/ " read Alec aloud. "Oh, 
my gosh!" 

"Say, Alec." 


"Does it bother you?" 

"Does what bother me?" 

"My acting dazed and all that?" 

"Why, no of course it doesn't bother me." 

"Well, then, don't spoil it. If I enjoy going around 
telling people guilelessly that I think I'm a genius, let 
me do it." 

"You're getting a reputation for being eccentric," 
said Alec, laughing, "if that's what you mean." 

Amory finally prevailed, and Alec agreed to accept 
his face value in the presence of others if he was al- 
lowed rest periods when they were alone; so Amory 
"ran it out" at a great rate, bringing the most eccentric 
characters to dinner, wild-eyed grad students, pre- 
ceptors with strange theories of God and government, 
to the cynical amazement of the supercilious Cottage 

As February became slashed by sun and moved 
cheerfully into March, Amory went several times to 
spend week-ends with Monsignor; once he took Burne, 
with great success, for he took equal pride and delight 


in displaying them to each other. Monsignor took him 
several times to see Thornton Hancock, and once or twice 
to the house of a Mrs. Lawrence, a type of Rome- 
haunting American whom Amory liked immediately. 

Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which 
appended an interesting P. S.: 

"Do you know," it ran, "that your third cousin, Clara Page, 
widowed six months and very poor, is living in Philadelphia? 
I don't think you've ever met her, but I wish, as a favor to me, 
you'd go to see her. To my mind, she's rather a remarkable 
woman, and just about your age." 

Amory sighed and decided to go, as a favor. . . . 


She was immemorial. . . . Amory wasn't good 
enough for Clara, Clara of ripply golden hair, but then 
no man was. Her goodness was above the prosy morals 
of the husband-seeker, apart from the dull literature of 
female virtue. 

Sorrow lay lightly around her, and when Amory found 
her in Philadelphia he thought her steely blue eyes held 
only happiness; a latent strength, a realism, was brought 
to its fullest development by the facts that she was 
compelled to face. She was alone in the world, with 
two small children, little money, and, worst of all, a host 
of friends. He saw her that winter in Philadelphia 
entertaining a houseful of men for an evening, when he 
knew she had not a servant in the house except the lit- 
tle colored girl guarding the babies overhead. He saw 
one of the greatest libertines in that city, a man who 
was habitually drunk and notorious at home and 
abroad, sitting opposite her for an evening, discussing 
girls' boarding-schools with a sort of innocent excite- 


ment. What a twist Clara had to her mind ! She could 
make fascinating and almost brilliant conversation out 
of the thinnest air that ever floated through a drawing- 

The- idea that the girl was poverty-stricken had ap- 
pealed to Amory's sense of situation. He arrived in 
Philadelphia expecting to be told that 921 Ark Street 
was in a miserable lane of hovels. He was even disap- 
pointed when it proved to be nothing of the sort. It 
was an old house that had been in her husband's fam- 
ily for years. An elderly aunt, who objected to having 
it sold, had put ten years' taxes with a lawyer and 
pranced off to Honolulu, leaving Clara to struggle with 
the heating-problem as best she could. So no wild- 
haired woman with a hungry baby at her breast and a 
sad Amelia-like look greeted him. Instead, Amory 
would have thought from his reception that she had not 
a care in the world. 

A calm virility and a dreamy humor, marked con- 
trasts to her level-headedness into these moods she 
slipped sometimes as a refuge. She could do the most 
prosy things (though she was wise enough never to 
stultify herself with such "household arts" as knitting 
and embroidery}, yet immediately afterward pick up a 
book and let her imagination rove as a formless cloud 
with the wind. Deepest of all in her personality was 
the golden radiance that she diffused around her. As 
an open fire in a dark room throws romance and pathos 
into the quiet faces at its edge, so she cast her lights 
and shadows around the rooms that held her, until she 
made of her prosy old unc j e a man of quaint and 
meditative charm, metamorphosed the stray telegraph 
boy into a Puck-like creature of delightful originality. 
At first this quality of hers somehow irritated Amory. 
He considered his own uniqueness sufficient, and it 


rather embarrassed him when she tried to read new 
interests into him for the benefit of what other adorers 
were present. He felt as if a polite but insistent stage- 
manager were attempting to make him give a new in- 
terpretation of a part he had conned for years. 

But Clara talking, Clara telling a slender tale of a hat- 
pin and an inebriated man and herself. . . . People 
tried afterward to repeat her anecdotes but for the life 
of them they could make them sound like nothing 
whatever. They gave her a sort of innocent attention 
and the best smiles many of them had smiled for long; 
there were few tears in Clara, but people smiled misty- 
eyed at her. 

Very occasionally Amory stayed for little half-hours 
after the rest of the court had gone, and they would 
have bread and jam and tea late in the afternoon or 
"maple-sugar lunches," as she called them, at night. 

"You are remarkable, aren't you!" Amory was be- 
coming trite from where he perched in the centre of the 
dining-room table one six o'clock. 

"Not a bit," she answered. She was searching out 
napkins in the sideboard. "I'm really most humdrum 
and commonplace. One of those people who have no 
interest in anything but their children." 

"Tell that to somebody else," scoffed Amory. "You 
know you're perfectly effulgent." He asked her the 
one thing that he knew might embarrass her. It was the 
remark that the first bore made to Adam. 

"Tell me about yourself." And she gave the answer 
that Adam must have given. 

"There's nothing to tell." 

But eventually Adam probably told the bore all the 
things he thought about at night when the locusts sang 
in the sandy grass, and he must have remarked patroniz- 
ingly how different he was from Eve, forgetting how dif- 


ferent she was from him ... at any rate, Clara told 
Amory much about herself that evening. She had had a 
harried life from sixteen on, and her education had 
stopped sharply with her leisure. Browsing in her li- 
brary, Amory found a tattered gray book out of which 
fell a yellow sheet that he impudently opened. It was 
a poem that she had written at school about a gray 
convent wall on a gray day, and a girl with her cloak 
blown by the wind sitting atop of it and thinking about 
the many-colored world. As a rule such sentiment 
bored him, but this was done with so much simplicity 
and atmosphere, that it brought a picture of Clara to 
his mind, of Clara on such a cool, gray day with her 
keen blue eyes staring out, trying to see her tragedies 
come marching over the gardens outside. He envied 
that poem. How he would have loved to have come 
along and seen her on the wall and talked nonsense or 
romance to her, perched above him in the air. He be- 
gan to be frightfully jealous of everything about Clara: 
of her past, of her babies, of the men and women who 
flocked to drink deep of her cool kindness and rest their 
tired minds as at an absorbing play. 

"Nobody seems to bore you," he objected. 

"About half the world do," she admitted, "but I 
think that's a pretty good average, don't you?" and 
she turned to find something in Browning that bore on 
the subject. She was the only person he ever met who 
could look up passages and quotations to show him in 
the middle of the conversation, and yet not be irritat- 
ing to distraction. She did it constantly, with such a 
serious enthusiasm that he grew fond of watching her 
golden hair bent over a book, brow wrinkled ever so 
little at hunting her sentence. 

Through early March he took to going to Philade.- 
phia for week-ends. Almost always there was some one 


else there and she seemed not anxious to see him alone, 
for many occasions presented themselves when a word 
from he"r would have given him another delicious half- 
hour of adoration. But he fell gradually in love and 
began to speculate wildly on marriage. Though this 
design flowed through his brain even to his lips, still he 
knew afterward that the desire had not been deeply 
rooted. Once he dreamt that it had come true and 
woke up in a cold panic, for in his dream she had been a 
silly, flaxen Clara, with the gold gone out of her hair 
and platitudes falling insipidly from her changeling 
tongue. But she was the first fine woman he ever knew 
and one of the few good people who ever interested him. 
She made her goodness such an asset. Amory had de- 
cided that most good people either dragged theirs after 
them as a liability, or else distorted it to artificial genial- 
ity, and of course there were the ever-present prig and 
Pharisee (but Amory never included them as being 
among the saved). 


"Over her gray and velvet dress, 

Under her molten, beaten hair, 
Color of rose in mock distress 

Flushes and jades and makes her fair ; 
Fills the air from her to him 

With light and languor and little sighs, 
Just so subtly he scarcely knows . . . 

Laughing lightning, color of rose" 

"Do you like me?" 

"Of course I do," said Clara seriously. 


"Well, we have some qualities in common. Things 
that are spontaneous in each of us or were originally." 

"You're implying that I haven't used myself very 


Clara hesitated. 

"Well, I can't judge. A man, of course, has to go 
through a lot more, and I've been sheltered." 

"Oh, don't stall, please, Clara," Amory interrupted; 
"but do talk about me a little, won't you?" 

"Surely, I'd adore to." She didn't smile. 

"That's sweet of you. First answer some questions. 
Am I painfully conceited?" 

"Well no, you have tremendous vanity, but it'll 
amuse the people who notice its preponderance." 

"I see." 

"You're really humble at heart. You sink to the 
third hell of depression when you think you've beem 
slighted. In fact, you haven't much self-respect." 

"Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? 
You never let me say a word." 

"Of course not I can never judge a man while he's 
talking. But I'm not through; the reason you have so 
little real self-confidence, even though you gravely an- 
nounce to the occasional philistine that you think you're 
a genius, is that you've attributed all sorts of atrocious 
faults to yourself and are trying to live up to them. For 
instance, you're always saying that you are a slave to 

"But I am, potentially." 

"And you say you're a weak character, that you've 
no will." 

"Not a bit of will I'm a slave to my emotions, to 
my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my de- 

"You are not!" She brought one little fist down 
onto the other. "You're a slave, a bound helpless slave 
to one thing in the world, your imagination." 

"You certainly interest me. If this isn't boring you, 
go on." 


"I notice that when you want to stay over an extra 
day from college you go about it in a sure way. You 
never decide at first while the merits of going or stay- 
ing are fairly clear in your mind. You let your imagina- 
tion shinny on the side of your desires for a few hours, 
and then you decide. Naturally your imagination, 
after a little freedom, thinks up a million reasons why 
you should stay, so your decision when it comes isn't 
true. It's biassed." 

"Yes," objected Amory, "but isn't it lack of will- 
power to let my imagination shinny on the wrong side ? " 

"My dear boy, there's your big mistake. This has 
nothing to do with will-power; that's a crazy, useless 
word, anyway; you lack judgment the judgment to 
decide at once when you know your imagination will 
play you false, given half a chance." 

"Well, I'll be darned !" exclaimed Amory in surprise, 
"that's the last thing I expected." 

Clara didn't gloat. She changed the subject im- 
mediately. But she had started him thinking and he 
believed she was partly right. He felt like a factory- 
owner who after accusing a clerk of dishonesty finds 
that his own son, in the office, is changing the books 
once a week. His poor, mistreated will that he had been 
holding up to the scorn of himself and his friends, stood 
before him innocent, and his judgment walked off to 
prison with the unconfinable imp, imagination, danc- 
ing in mocking glee beside him. Clara's was the only 
advice he ever asked without dictating the answer him- 
self except, perhaps, in his talks with Monsignor 

How he loved to do any sort of thing with Clara! 
Shopping with her was a rare, epicurean dream. In 
every store where she had ever traded she was whispered 
about as the beautiful Mrs. Page. 


"I'll bet she won't stay single long." 

"Well, don't scream it out. She ain't lookin' for no 

"Ain't she beautiful!" 

(Enter a floor-walker silence till he moves for- 
ward, smirking.) 

"Society person, ain't she?" 

"Yeah, but poor now, I guess; so they say." 

"Gee! girls, ain't she some kid !" 

And Clara beamed on all alike. Amory believed that 
tradespeople gave her discounts, sometimes to her 
knowledge and sometimes without it. He knew she 
dressed very well, had always the best of everything in 
the house, and was inevitably waited upon by the head 
floor-walker at the very least. 

Sometimes they would go to church together on Sun- 
day and he would walk beside her and revel in her 
cheeks moist from the soft water in the new air. She 
was very devout, always had been, and God knows 
what heights she attained and what strength she drew 
down to herself when she knelt and bent her golden hair 
into the stained-glass light. 

"St. Cecelia," he cried aloud one day, quite invol- 
untarily, and the people turned and peered, and the 
priest paused in his sermon and Clara and Amory turned 
to fiery red. 

That was the last Sunday they had, for he spoiled it 
all that night. He couldn't help it. 

They were walking through the March twilight where 
it was as warm as June, and the joy of youth nlkd his 
soul so that he felt he must speak. 

"I think," he said and his voice trembled, "that if I 
lost faith in you I'd lose faith in God." 

She looked at him with such a startled face that he 
asked her the matter. 


"Nothing," she said slowly, "only this: five men have 
said that to me before, and it frightens me." 

"Oh, Clara, is that your fate!" 

She did not answer. 

"I suppose love to you is " he began. 

She turned like a flash. 

"I have never been in love." 

They walked along, and he realized slowly how much 
she had told him . . . never in love. . . . She seemed 
suddenly a daughter of light alone. His entity dropped 
out of her plane and he longed only to touch her dress 
with almost the realization that Joseph must have had 
of Mary's eternal significance. But quite mechanic- 
ally he heard himself saying: 

"And I love you any latent greatness that I've got 
is ... oh, I can't talk, but Clara, if I come back in 
two years in a position to marry you " 

She shook her head. 

"No," she said; "I'd never marry again. I've got 
my two children and I want myself for them. I like 
you I like all clever men, you more than any but 
you know me well enough to know that I'd never marry 
a clever man " She broke off suddenly. 



"You're not in love with me. You never wanted to 
marry me, did you?" 

"It was the twilight," he said wonderingly. "I 
didn't feel as though I were speaking aloud. But I 
love you or adore you or worship you 

"There you go running through your catalogue of 
emotions in five seconds." 

He smiled unwillingly. 

"Don't make me but such a light-weight, Clara; you 
are depressing sometimes." 


"You're not a light-weight, of all things," she said 
intently, taking his arm and opening wide her eyes 
he could see their kindliness in the fading dusk. "A 
light-weight is an eternal nay." 

"There's so much spring in the air there's so much 
lazy sweetness in your heart." 

She dropped his arm. 

"You're all fine now, and I feel glorious. Give me a 
cigarette. You've never seen me smoke, have you ? 
Well, I do, about once a month." 

And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the 
corner like two mad children gone wild with pale-blue 

"I'm going to the country for to-morrow," she an- 
nounced, as she stood panting, safe beyond the flare of 
the corner lamp-post. "These days are too magnificent 
to miss, though perhaps I feel them more in the city." 

"Oh, Clara!" Amory said; "what a devil you could 
have been if the Lord had just bent your soul a little 
the other way ! " 

"Maybe," she answered; "but I think not. I'm never 
really wild and never have been. That little outburst 
was pure spring." 

"And you are, too," said he. 

They were walking along now. 

"No you're wrong again, how can a person of your 
own self-reputed brains be so constantly wrong about 
me? I'm the opposite of everything spring ever stood 
for. It's unfortunate, if I happen to look like what 
pleased some soppy old Greek sculptor, but I assure 
you that if it weren't for my face I'd be a quiet nun in 
the convent without" then she broke into a run 
and her raised voice floated back to him as he followed 
"my precious babies, which I must go back and see." 

She was the only girl he ever knew with whom he 


could understand how another man might be preferred. 
Often Amory met wives whom he had known as debu- 
tantes, and looking intently at them imagined that he 
found something in their faces which said: 

"Oh, if I could only have gotten youl" Oh, the 
enormous conceit of the man*! 

But that night seemed a night of stars and singing 
and Clara's bright soul still gleamed on the ways they 
had trod. 

"Golden, golden is the air " he chanted to the little 
pools of water. . . . "Golden is the air, golden notes from 
golden mandolins, golden frets of golden violins, fair, oh, 
wearily fair. . . . Skeins from braided basket, mortals 
may not hold; oh, what young extravagant God, who would 
know or ask it? . . . who could give suck gold . . ." 


Slowly and inevitably, yet with a sudden surge at the 
last, while Amory talked and dreamed, war rolled swiftly 
up the beach and washed the sands where Princeton 
played. Every night the gymnasium echoed as platoon 
after platoon swept over the floor and shuffled out the 
basket-ball markings. When Amory went to Wash- 
ington the next week-end he caught some of the spirit 
of crisis which changed to repulsion in the Pullman car 
coming back, for the berths across from him were oc- 
cupied by stinking aliens Greeks, he guessed, or 
Russians. He thought how much easier patriotism had 
been to a homogeneous race, how much easier it would 
have been to fight as the Colonies fought, or as the Con- 
federacy fought. And he did no sleeping that night, 
but listened to the aliens guffaw and snore while they 
filled the car with the heavy scent of latest America. 

In Princeton every one bantered in public and told 


themselves privately that their deaths at least would be 
heroic. The literary students read Rupert Brooke 
passionately; the lounge-lizards worried over whether 
the government would permit the English-cut uniform 
for officers; a few of the hopelessly lazy wrote to the 
obscure branches of the War Department, seeking an 
easy commission and a soft berth. 

Then, after a week, Amory saw Burne and knew at 
once that argument would be futile Burne had come 
out as a pacifist. The socialist magazines, a great smat- 
tering of Tolstoi, and his own intense longing for a 
cause that would bring out whatever strength lay in 
him, had finally decided him to preach peace as a sub- 
jective ideal. 

"When the German army entered Belgium," he be- 
gan, "if the inhabitants had gone peaceably about their 
business, the German army would have been disor- 
ganized in " 

"I know," Amory interrupted, "I've heard it all. 
But I'm not going to talk propaganda with you. There's 
a chance that you're right but even so we're hundreds 
of years before the time when non-resistance can touch 
us as a reality." 

"But, Amory, listen " 

"Burne, we'd just argue " 

"Very well." 

"Just one thing I don't ask you to think of your 
family or friends, because I know they don't count a 
picayune with you beside your sense of duty but, 
Burne, how do you know that the magazines you read 
and the societies you join and these idealists you meet 
aren't just plain German?" 

"Some of them are, of course." 

"How do you know they aren't all pro-German 
just a lot of weak ones with German- Jewish names." 


"That's the chance, of course," he said slowly. "How 
much or how little I'm taking this stand because of 
propaganda I've heard, I don't know; naturally I think 
that it's my most innermost conviction it seems a path 
spread before me just now." 

Amory's heart sank. 

"But think of the cheapness of it no one's really 
going to martyr you for being a pacifist it's just going 
to throw you in with the worst " 

"I doubt it," he interrupted. 

"Well, it all smells of Bohemian New York to me." 

"I know what you mean, and that's why I'm not sure 
I'll agitate." 

"You're one man, Burne going to talk to people 
who won't listen with all God's given you." 

"That's what Stephen must have thought many years 
ago. But he preached his sermon and they killed him. 
He probably thought as he was dying what a waste it 
all was. But you see, I've always felt that Stephen's 
death was the thing that occurred to Paul on the road 
to Damascus, and sent him to preach the word of Christ 
all over the world." 


"That's all this is my particular duty. Even if 
right now I'm just a pawn just sacrificed. God! 
Amory you don't think / like the Germans ! " 

"Well, I can't say anything else I get to the end of 
all the logic about non-resistance, and there, like an 
excluded middle, stands the huge spectre of man as he 
is and always will be. And this spectre stands right 
beside the one logical necessity of Tolstoi's, and the 
other logical necessity of Nietzsche's " Amory broke 
off suddenly. "When are you going?" 

"I'm, going next week." 

"I'll see you, of course." 


As he walked away it seemed to Amory that the look 
in his face bore a great resemblance to that in Kerry's 
when he had said good-by under Blair Arch two years 
before. Amory wondered unhappily why he could never 
go into anything with the primal honesty of those two. 

"Burne's a fanatic," he said to Tom, "and he's dead 
wrong and, I'm inclined to think, just an unconscious 
pawn in the hands of anarchistic publishers and Ger- 
man-paid rag wavers but he haunts me just leaving 
every thing worth while " 

Burne left in a quietly dramatic manner a week later. 
He sold all his possessions and came down to the room 
to say good-by, with a battered old bicycle, on which he 
intended to ride to his home in Pennsylvania. 

"Peter the Hermit bidding farewell to Cardinal 
Richelieu," suggested Alec, who was lounging in the 
window-seat as Burne and Amory shook hands. 

But Amory was not in a mood for that, and as he saw 
Burne's long legs propel his ridiculous bicycle out of 
sight beyond Alexander Hall, he knew he was going to 
have a bad week. Not that he doubted the war Ger- 
many stood for everything repugnant to him ; for ma- 
terialism and the direction of tremendous licentious 
force; it was just that Burne's face stayed in his mem- 
ory and he was sick of the hysteria he was beginning to 

"What on earth is the use of suddenly running down 
Goethe," he declared to Alec and Tom. "Why write 
books to prove he started the war or that that stupid, 
overestimated Schiller is a demon in disguise?" 

"Have you ever read anything of theirs?" asked Tom 

"No," Amory admitted. 

"Neither have I," he said laughing. 

"People will shout," said Alec quietly, "but Goethe's 


on his same old shelf in the library to bore any one 
that wants to read him ! " 

Amory subsided, and the subject dropped. 

"What are you going to do, Amory?" 

"Infantry or aviation, I can't make up my mind I 
hate mechanics, but then of course aviation's the thing 
for me " 

"I feel as Amory does," said Tom. "Infantry or 
aviation aviation sounds like the romantic side of the 
war, of course like cavalry used to be, you know; but 
like Amory I don't know a horse-power from a piston- 

Somehow Amory's dissatisfaction with his lack of 
enthusiasm culminated in an attempt to put the blame 
for the whole war on the ancestors of his generation . . . 
all the people who cheered for Germany in 1870. . . . 
All the materialists rampant, all the idolizers of German 
science and efficiency. So he sat one day in an Eng- 
lish lecture and heard "Locksley Hall" quoted and fell 
into a brown study with contempt for Tennyson and all 
he stood for for he took him as a representative of the 

" Victorians, Victorians, who never learned to weep 
Who sowed the bitter harvest that your children go to reap " 

scribbled Amory in his note-book. The lecturer was 
saying something about Tennyson's solidity and fifty 
heads were bent to take notes. Amory turned over to 
a fresh page and began scrawling again. 

" They shuddered when they found what Mr. Darwin WAS about, 
They shuddered when the waltz came in and Newman hurried 

But the waltz came in much earlier; he crossed that 


"And entitled A Song in the Time of Order" came the 
professor's voice, droning far away. "Time of Order" 
Good Lord! Everything crammed in the box and 
the Victorians sitting on the lid smiling serenely. . . . 
With Browning in his Italian villa crying bravely: 
"All's for the best." Amory scribbled again. 

" You knelt up in the temple and he bent to hear you pray, 
You thanked him for your 'glorious gains' reproached him for 
1 Cathay.'" 

Why could he never get more than a couplet at a time ? 
Now he needed something to rhyme with: 

" You would keep Him straight with science, tho He had gone wrong 
before ..." 

Well, anyway. . . . 

" You met your children in your home ' I've fixed it up t ' you cried, 
Took your fifty years of Europe, and then virtuously died." 

"That was to a great extent Tennyson's idea," came 
the lecturer's voice. "Swinburne's Song in the Time of 
Order might well have been Tennyson's title. He ideal- 
ized order against chaos, against waste." 

At last Amory had it. He turned over another page 

and scrawled vigorously for the twenty minutes that 

was left of the hour. Then he walked up to the desk 

and deposited a page torn out of his note-book. 

"Here's a poem to the Victorians, sir," he said coldly. 

The professor picked it up curiously while Amory 
backed rapidly through the door. 

Here is what he had written: 

"Songs in the time of order 
You left for us to sing, 
Proofs with excluded middles, 
Answers to life in rhyme, 


Keys of the prison warder 
And ancient bells to ring, 
Time was the end of riddles, 
We were the end of time . . . , 

Here were domestic oceans 
And a sky that we might reach, 
Guns and a guarded border, 
Gantlets but not to fling, 
Thousands of old emotions 
And a platitude for each, 
Songs in the time of order 
And tongues, that we might sing." 


Early April slipped by in a haze a haze of long eve- 
nings on the club veranda with the graphophone play- 
ing "Poor Butterfly" inside ... for "Poor Butterfly" 
had been the song of that last year. The war seemed 
scarcely to touch them and it might have been one of 
the senior springs of the past, except for the drilling 
every other afternoon, yet Amory realized poignantly 
that this was the last spring under the old regime. 

"This is the great protest against the superman," 
said Amory. 

"I suppose so," Alec agreed. 

"He's absolutely irreconcilable with any Utopia. As 
long as he occurs, there's trouble and all the latent evil 
^ that makes a crowd list and sway when he talks." 

"And of course all that he is is a gifted man with- 
out a moral sense." 

"That's all. I think the worst thing to contemplate 
is this it's all happened before, how soon will it happen 
again? Fifty years after Waterloo Napoleon was as 
much a hero to English school children as Wellington. 
How do we know our grandchildren won't idolize Von 
Hindenburg the same way?" 


"What brings it about?" 

"Time, damn it, and the historian. If we could only 
learn to look on evil as evil, whether it's clothed in filth 
or monotony or magnificence." 

"God ! Haven't we raked the universe over the coals 
for four years?" 

Then the night came that was to be the last. Tom 
and Amory, bound in the morning for different training- 
camps, paced the shadowy walks as usual and seemed 
still to see around them the faces of the men they knew. 

"The grass is full of ghosts to-night." 

"The whole campus is alive with them." 

They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to 
make silver of the slate roof of Dodd and blue the rus- 
tling trees. 

"You know," whispered Tom, "what we feel now is 
the sense of all the gorgeous youth that has rioted 
through here in two hundred years. 

A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch 
broken voices for some long parting. 

"And what we leave here is more than this class; it's 
the whole heritage of youth. We're just one genera- 
tion we're breaking all the links that seemed to bind 
us here to top-booted and high-stocked generations. 
We've walked arm and arm with Burr and Light-Horse 
Harry Lee through half these deep-blue nights." 

"That's what they are," Tom tangented off, "deep 
blue a bit of color would spoil them, make them 
exotic. Spires, against a sky that's a promise of dawn, 
and blue light on the slate roofs it hurts . . . 

"Good-by, Aaron Burr," Amory called toward de- 
serted Nassau Hall, "you and I knew strange corners of 

His voice echoed in the stillness. 


"The torches are out," whispered Tom. "Ah, Mes- 
salina, the long shadows are building minarets on the 

For an instant the voices of freshman year surged 
around them and then they looked at each other with 
faint tears in their eyes. 



The last light fades and drifts across the land' the low, 
long land, the sunny land of spires; the ghosts of evening 
tune again their lyres and wander singing in a plaintive 
band down the long corridors of trees; pale fires echo the 
night from tower top to tower: Oh, sleep that dreams, and 
dream that never tires, press from the petals of the lotus 
flower something of this to keep, the essence of an hour. 

No more to wait the twilight of the moon in this se- 
questered vale of star and spire, for one eternal morning 
of desire fosses to time and earthy afternoon. Here, 
Heraclitus, did you find in fire and shifting things the 
prophecy you hurled down the dead years; this midnight 
my desire will see, shadowed among the embers, furled in 
flame, the splendor and the sadness of the world. 

MAY, 1917 FEBRUARY, 1919 

A letter dated January, 1918, written by Monsignor Darcy 
to Amory, who is a second lieutenant in the 17 is/ 
Infantry, Port of Embarkation, Camp Mills, Long 


All you need tell me of yourself is that you still are; for the 
rest I merely search back in a restive memory, a thermometer 
that records only fevers, and match you with what I was at your 
age. But men will chatter and you and I will still shout our 
futilities to each other across the stage until the last silly curtain 
falls plump! upon our bobbing heads. But you are starting the 
spluttering magic-lantern show of life with much the same ar- 
ray of slides as I had, so I need to write you if only to shriek 
the colossal stupidity of people. . . . 

This is the end of one thing: for better or worse you will 
never again be quite the Amory Blaine that I knew, never again 
will we meet as we have met, because your generation is growing 
hard, much harder than mine ever grew, nourished as they were 
on the stuff of the nineties. 

Amory, lately I reread ^Eschylus and there in the divine 
irony of the " Agamemnon" I find the only answer to this bitter 
age all the world tumbled about our ears, and the closest 
parallel ages back in that hopeless resignation. There are times 
when I think of the men out there as Roman legionaries, miles 
from their corrupt city, stemming back the hordes . . . hordes a 
little more menacing, after all, than the corrupt city . . . an- 
other blind blow at the race, furies that we passed with ovations 
years ago, over whose corpses we bleated triumphantly all 
through the Victorian era. . . . 

And afterward an out-and-out materialistic world and the 
Catholic Church. I wonder where you'll fit in. Of one thing 
I'm sure Celtic you'll live and Celtic you'll die; so if you don't 
use heaven as a continual referendum for your ideas you'll find 
earth a continual recall to your ambitions. 

Amory, I've discovered suddenly that I'm an old man. Like 
all old men, I've had dreams sometimes and I'm going to tell 
you of them. I've enjoyed imagining that you were my son, 



that perhaps when I was young I went into a state of coma and 
begat you, and when I came to, had no recollection of it ... 
it's the paternal instinct, Amory celibacy goes deeper than the 
flesh. . . . 

Sometimes I think that the explanation of our deep resem- 
blance is some common ancestor, and I find that the only blood 
that the Darcys and the O'Haras have in common is that of the 
O'Donahues . . . Stephen was his name, I think. . . . 

When the lightning strikes one of us it strikes both: you had 
hardly arrived at the port of embarkation when I got my papers 
to start for Rome, and I am waiting every moment to be told 
where to take ship. Even before you get this letter I shall be 
on the ocean; then will come your turn. You went to war as a 
gentleman should, just as you went to school and college, be- 
cause it was the thing to do. It's better to leave the blustering 
and tremulo-heroism to the middle classes; they do it so much 

Do you remember that week-end last March when you 
brought Burne Holiday from Princeton to see me? What a 
magnificent boy he is ! It gave me a frightful shock afterward 
when you wrote that he thought me splendid; how could he be 
so deceived? Splendid is the one thing that neither you nor I 
are. We are many other things we're extraordinary, we're 
clever, we could be said, I suppose, to be brilliant. We can at- 
tract people, we can make atmosphere, we can almost lose our 
Celtic souls in Celtic subtleties, we can almost always have our 
own way; but splendid rather not! 

I am going to Rome with a wonderful dossier and letters of 
introduction that cover every capital in Europe, and there will 
be "no small stir" when I get there. How I wish you were 
with me! This sounds like a rather cynical paragraph, not at 
all the sort of thing that a middle-aged clergyman should write 
to a youth about to depart for the war; the only excuse is that 
the middle-aged clergyman is talking to himself. There are 
deep things in us and you know what they are as well as I do. 
We have great faith, though yours at present is uncrystallized; 
we have a terrible honesty that all our sophistry cannot destroy 
and, above all, a childlike simplicity that keeps us from ever 
being really malicious. 

I have written a keen for you which follows. I am sorry 
your cheeks are not up to the description I have written of 
them, but you will smoke and read all night 


At any rate here it is: 

A Lament for a Foster Son, and He going to Ike War Against the 

King of Foreign. 
He is gone from me the son of my mind 

And he in his golden youth like Angus Oge 
Angus of the bright birds 

And his mind strong and subtle like the mind of Cuchulin oa 

Awirra sthrue 

His brow is as white as the milk of the cows of Maeve 

And his cheeks like the cherries of the tree 
And it bending down to Mary and she feeding the Son of God. 

Aveelia Vrone 

His hair is like the golden collar of the Kings at Tara 

And his eyes like the four gray seas of Erin. 
And they swept with the mists of rain. 

Mavrone go Gudyo 

He to be in the joyful and red battle 

Amongst the chieftains and they doing great deeds of valor 
His life to go from him 

It is the chords of my own soul would be loosed. 

A Vich Deelish 

My heart is in the heart of my son 

And my life is in his life surely 
A man can be twice young 

In the life of his sons only. 

Jia du Vaha Alanav 
May the Son of God be above him and beneath him, before him 

and behind him 
May the King of the elements cast a mist over the eyes of the 

King of Foreign, 

May the Queen of the Graces lead him by the hand the way he 
can go through the midst of his enemies and they not see- 


May Patrick of the Gael and Collumb of the Churches and 
the five thousand Saints of Erin be better than a shield to 
And he go into the fight. 

Och Ochone." 

Amory Amory I feel, somehow, that this is all; one or 
both of us is not going to last out this war. ... I've been 
trying to tell you how much this reincarnation of myself in you 
has meant in the last few years . . . curiously alike we are 
. . . curiously unlike. 

Good-by, dear boy, and God be with you. 



Amory moved forward on the deck until he found a 
stool under an electric light. He searched in his pocket 
for note-book and pencil and then began to write, 
slowly, laboriously: 

"We leave to-night . . . 

Silent, we filled the still, deserted street, 

A column of dim gray, 
And ghosts rose startled at the muffled beat 

Along the moonless way; 
The shadowy shipyards echoed to the feet 

That turned from night and day. 

And so we linger on the windless decks, 

See on the spectre shore 
Shades of a thousand days, poor gray-ribbed wrecks . . . 

Oh, shall we then deplore 
Those futile year si 

See how the sea is white! 
The clouds have broken and the heavens burn 

To hollow highways, paved with gravelled light 
The churning of the waves about the stern 

Rises to one voluminous nocturne, 

. . . We leave to-night." 


A letter from Amory, headed "Brest, March nth, 1919," 
to Lieutenant T. P. D'lnvilliers, Camp Gordon. Ga. 


We meet in Manhattan on the 3oth of this very mo.; we 
then proceed to take a very sporty apartment, you and I and 
Alec, who is at me elbow as I write. I don't know what I'm 
going to do but I have a vague dream of going into politics. 
Why is it that the pick of the young Englishmen from Oxford 
and Cambridge go into politics and in the U. S. A. we leave it 
to the muckers? raised hi the ward, educated in the assembly 
and sent to Congress, fat-paunched bundles of corruption, de- 
void of "both ideas and ideals" as the debaters used to say. 
Even forty years ago we had good men in politics, but we, we 
are brought up to pile up a million and "show what we are 
made of." Sometimes I wish I'd been an Englishman; American 
life is so damned dumb and stupid and healthy. 

Since poor Beatrice died I'll probably have a little money, 
but very darn little. I can forgive mother almost everything 
except the fact that in a sudden burst of religiosity toward the 
end, she left half of what remained to be spent in stained-glass 
windows and seminary endowments. Mr. Barton, my lawyer, 
writes me that my thousands are mostly in street railways 
and that the said Street R.R.s are losing money because of 
the five-cent fares. Imagine a salary list that gives $350 a 
month to a man that can't read and write ! yet I believe in it, 
even though I've seen what was once a sizable fortune melt 
away between speculation, extravagance, the democratic ad- 
ministration, and the income tax modern, that's me all over, 

At any rate we'll have really knock-out rooms you can get 
a job on some fashion magazine, and Alec can go into the Zinc 
Company or whatever it is that his people own he's looking 
over my shoulder and he says it's a brass company, but I don't 
think it matters much, do you? There's probably as much cor- 
ruption hi zinc-made money as brass-made money. As for the 
well-known Amory, he would write immortal literature if he 
were sure enough about anything to risk telling any one else 
about it. There is no more dangerous gift to posterity than a 
few cleverly turned platitudes. 

Tom, why don't you become a Catholic? Of course to be a 
good one you'd have to give up those violent intrigues you used 


to tell me about, but you'd write better poetry if you were 
linked up to tall golden candlesticks and long, even chants, 
and even if the American priests are rather burgeois, as Bea- 
trice used to say, still you need only go to the sporty churches, 
and I'll introduce you to Monsignor Darcy who really is a 

Kerry's death was a blow, so was Jesse's to a certain extent. 
And I have a great curiosity to know what queer comer of the 
world has swallowed Burne. Do you suppose he's in prison 
under some false name? I confess that the war instead of 
making me orthodox, which is the correct reaction, has made 
me a passionate agnostic. The Catholic Church has had its 
wings (dipped so often lately that its part was timidly negligible, 
and they haven't any good writers any more. I'm sick of 

I've only discovered one soldier who passed through the 
much-advertised spiritual crisis, like this fellow, Donald Han- 
key, and the one I knew was already studying for the ministry, 
so he was ripe for it. I honestly think that's all pretty much 
rot, though it seemed to give sentimental comfort to those at 
home; and may make fathers and mothers appreciate their 
children. This crisis-inspired religion is rather valueless and 
fleeting at best. I think four men have discovered Paris to one 
that discovered God. 

But us you and me and Alec oh, we'll get a Jap butler 
and dress for dinner and have wine on the table and lead a 
contemplative, emotionless life until we decide to use machine- 
guns with the property owners or throw bombs with the Bol- 
shevik. God ! Tom, I hope something happens. I'm restless 
as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love 
and growing domestic. 

The place at Lake Geneva is now for rent but when I land 
I'm going West to see Mr. Barton and get some details. 
Write me care of the Blackstone, Chicago. 
S'ever, dear Boswell, 




The time is February. The place is a large, dainty bed- 
room in the Connage house on Sixty-eighth Street, New 
York. A girl's room: pink walls and curtains and 
a pink bedspread on a cream-colored bed. Pink and 
cream are the motifs of the room, but the only article 
of furniture in full mew is a luxurious dressing-table 
with a glass top and a three-sided mirror. On the walls 
there is an expensive print of "Cherry Ripe" a few 
polite dogs by Landseer, and the "King of the Black 
Isles" by Maxfield Parrish. 

Great disorder consisting of the following items: (i) seven 
or eight empty cardboard boxes, with tissue-paper 
tongues hanging panting from their mouths; (2) an 
assortment of street dresses mingled with their sisters 
of the evening, all upon the table, all evidently new; 
(3) a roll of tulle, which has lost its dignity and wound 
itself tortuously around everything in sight, and (4) 
upon the two small chairs, a collection of lingerie that 
beggars description. One would enjoy seeing the bill 
called forth by the finery displayed and one is pos- 
sessed by a desire to see the princess for whose bene- 
fit Look! There's some one! Disappointment! 
This is only a maid hunting for something she lifts 
a heap from a chair Not there; another heap, the 
dressing-table, the chiffonier drawers. She brings to 
light several beautiful chemises and an amazing pajama 
but this does not satisfy her she goes out. 

An indistinguishable mumble from the next room. 



Now, we are getting warm. This is Alec's mother, Mrs. 
Connage, ample, dignified, rouged to the dowager 
point and quite worn out. Her lips move significantly 
as she looks for IT. Her search is less thorough than 
the maid's but there is a touch of fury in it, that quite 
makes up for its sketchiness. She stumbles on the 
tulle and her "damn" is quite audible. She re- 
tires, empty-handed. 

More chatter outside and a girl's voice, a very spoiled 
voice, says: "Of all the stupid people " 

After a pause a third seeker enters, not she of the spoiled 
voice, but a younger edition. This is Cecelia Con- 
nage, sixteen, pretty, shrewd, and constitutionally good- 
humored. She is dressed for the evening in a gown 
the obvious simplicity of which probably bores her. 
She goes to the nearest pile, selects a small pink gar- 
ment and holds it up appraisingly. 

ROSALIND: (Outside) Yes! 
CECELIA: Very snappy? 
CECELIA: I've got it ! 

(She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table 

and commences to shimmy enthusiastically.) 
ROSALIND : (Outside) What are you doing trying it on ? 
(CECELIA ceases and goes out carrying the garment 

at the right shoulder. 

From the other door, enters ALEC CONNAGE. He 
looks around quickly and in a huge voice shouts: 
Mama ! There is a chorus of protest from next 
door and encouraged he starts toward it, but is 
repelled by another chorus.) 

ALEC: So that's where you all are! Amory Elaine is 


CECELIA: (Quickly) Take him down-stairs. 

ALEC: Oh, he is down-stairs. 

MRS. CONNAGE: Well, you can show him where his 
room is. Tell him I'm sorry that I can't meet him now. 

ALEC: He's heard a lot about you all. I wish you'd 
hurry. Father's telling him all about the war and he's 
restless. He's sort of temperamental. 

(This last suffices to draw CECELIA into the room.) 

CECELIA: (Seating herself high upon lingerie) How 
do you mean temperamental? You used to say that 
about him in letters. 

ALEC: Oh, he writes stuff. 

CECELIA: Does he play the piano? 

ALEC: Don't think so. 

CECELIA: (Speculatively) Drink? 

ALEC: Yes nothing queer about him. 

CECELIA: Money? 

ALEC: Good Lord ask him, he used to have a lot, 
and he's got some income now. 
(MRS. CONNAGE appears) 

MRS. CONNAGE: Alec, of course we're glad to have 
any friend of yours 

ALEC: You certainly ought to meet Amory. 

MRS. CONNAGE: Of course, I want to. But I think 
it's so childish of you to leave a perfectly good home to 
go and live with two other boys in some impossible 
apartment. I hope it isn't in order that you can all 
drink as much as you want. (She pauses) He'll be a 
little neglected to-night. This is Rosalind's week, you 
see. When a girl comes out, she needs all the attention.- 

ROSALIND: (Outside) Well, then, prove it by coming 
here and hooking me. 

(MRS. CONNAGE goes.) 

ALEC: Rosalind hasn't changed a bit. 

CECELIA: (In a lower tone] She's awfully spoiled. 


ALEC: She'll meet her match to-night. 
CECELIA: Who Mr. Amory Elaine? 

(ALEC nods,} 

CECELIA: Well, Rosalind has still to meet the man 
she can't outdistance. Honestly, Alec, she treats men 
terribly. She abuses them and cuts them and breaks 
dates with them and yawns in their faces and they 
come back for more. 
ALEC: They love it. 

CECELIA: They hate it. She's a she's a sort of vam- 
pire, I think and she can make girls do what she wants 
usually only she hates girls. 
ALEC: Personality runs in our family. 
CECELIA: (Resignedly) I guess it ran out before it got 

ALEC: Does Rosalind behave herself? 
CECELIA: Not particularly well. Oh, she's average 
smokes sometimes, drinks punch, frequently kissed 
Oh, yes common knowledge one of the effects of the 
war, you know. 

(Emerges MRS. CONNAGE.) 

MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind's almost finished so I can 
go down and meet your friend. 

(ALEC and his mother go out) 

ROSALIND: (Outside) Oh, mother 

CECELIA: Mother's gone down. 

(And now ROSALIND enters. ROSALIND is utterly 
ROSALIND. She is one of those girls who need 
never make the slightest effort to have men fall in 
love with them. Two types of men seldom do: 
dull men are usually afraid of her cleverness and 
intellectual men are usually afraid of her beauty. 
All others are hers by natural prerogative. 
If ROSALIND could be spoiled the process would have 
been complete by this time, and as a matter of 


fact, her disposition is not all it should be; she 
wants -what she wants when she wants it and she 
is prone to make every one around her pretty 
miserable when she doesn't get it but in the true 
sense she is not spoiled. Her fresh enthusiasm^ 
her will to grow and learn, her endless faith in 
the inexhaustibility of romance, her courage and 
fundamental honesty these things are not spoiled. 

There are long periods when she cordially loathes 
her whole family. She is quite unprincipled; 
her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and 
laissez fairefor others. She loves shocking stories : 
she has that coarse streak that usually goes with 
natures that are both fine and big. She wants 
people to like her, but if they do not it never 
worries her or changes her. 

She is by no means a model character. 

The education of all beautiful women is the knowl- 
edge of men. ROSALIND had been disappointed 
in man after man as individuals, but she had 
great faith in man as a sex. Women she detested. 
They represented qualities that she felt and de- 
spised in herself incipient meanness, conceit, 
cowardice, and petty dishonesty. She once told a 
roomful of her mother's friends that the only ex- 
cuse for women was the necessity for a disturb- 
ing element among men. She danced excep- 
tionally well, drew cleverly but hastily, and had a 
startling facility with words, which she used only 
in love-letters. 

But all criticism of ROSALIND ends in her beauty. 
There was that shade of glorious yellow hair, the 
desire to imitate which supports the dye industry. 
There was the eternal kissable mouth, small, 
slightly sensual, and utterly disturbing. There 


were gray eyes and an unimpeachable skin with 
two spots of vanishing color. She was slender and 
athletic, without underdevelopment, and it was 
a delight to watch her move about a room, walk 
along a street, swing a golf club, or turn a "cart- 

A last qualification her vivid, instant personality 
escaped that conscious, theatrical quality that 
DARCY would have been quite up a tree whether 
to call her a personality or a personage. She 
was perhaps the delicious, inexpressible, once-in- 
a-century blend. 

On the night of her debut she is, for all her strange, 
stray wisdom, quite like a happy little girl. Her 
mother's maid has just done her hair, but she has 
decided impatiently that she can do a better job 
herself. She is too nervous just now to stay in one 
place. To that we owe her presence in this lit- 
tered room. She is going to speak. ISABELLE'S 
alto tones had been like a violin, but if you could 
hear ROSALIND, you would say her voice was 
musical as a waterfall. 

ROSALIND: Honestly, there are only two costumes in 
the world that I really enjoy being in (Combing her 
hair at the dressing-table.) One's a hoop skirt with panta- 
loons; the other's a one-piece bathing-suit. I'm quite 
charming in both of them. 
CECELIA: Glad you're coming out? 
ROSALIND: Yes; aren't you? 

CECELIA: (Cynically) You're glad so you can get 
married and live on Long Island with the fast younger 
married set. You want life to be a chain of flirtation 
with a man for every link. 


ROSALIND: Want it to be one ! You mean I've found 
it one. 


ROSALIND: Cecelia, darling, you don't know what a 
trial it is to be like me. I've got to keep my face 
like steel in the street to keep men from winking at me. 
If I laugh hard from a front row in the theatre, the 
comedian plays to me for the rest of the evening. If I 
drop my voice, my eyes, my handkerchief at a dance, 
my partner calls me up on the 'phone every day for a 

CECELIA: It must be an awful strain. 

ROSALIND: The unfortunate part is that the only men 
who interest me at all are the totally ineligible ones. 
Now if I were poor I'd go on the stage. 

CECELIA: Yes, you might as well get paid for the 
amount of acting you do. 

ROSALIND: Sometimes when I've felt particularly 
radiant I've thought, why should this be wasted on one 

CECELIA: Often when you're particularly sulky, I've 
wondered why it should all be wasted on just one family. 
(Getting up.} I think I'll go down and meet Mr. Amory 
Elaine. I like temperamental men. 

ROSALIND: There aren't any. Men don't know how 
to be really angry or really happy and the ones that 
do, go to pieces. 

CECELIA: Well, I'm glad I don't have all your worries. 
I'm engaged. 

ROSALIND: (With a scornful smile) Engaged? Why, 
you little lunatic ! If mother heard you talking like that 
she'd send you off to boarding-school, where you belong. 

CECELIA: You won't tell her, though, because I know 
things I could tell and you're too selfish ! 


ROSALIND (A little annoyed] Run along, little girl ! 
Who are you engaged to, the iceman? the man that 
keeps the candy-store? 

CECELIA: Cheap wit good-by, darling, I'll see you 

ROSALIND: Oh, be sure and do that you're such a 

(Exit CECELIA. ROSALIND finished her hair and 
rises, humming. She goes up to the mirror and 
starts to dance in front of it on the soft carpet. 
She watches not her feet, but her eyes never casu- 
ally but always intently, even when she smiles. 
The door suddenly opens and then slams behind 
AMORY, very cool and handsome as usual. He 
melts into instant confusion.) 

HE: Oh, I'm sorry. I thought 

SHE: (Smiling radiantly) Oh, you're Amory Elaine, 
aren't you ? 

HE: (Regarding her closely) And you're Rosalind? 
SHE: I'm going to call you Amory oh, come in it's 
all right mother'll be right in (under her breath) un- 

HE: (Gazing around) This is sort of a new wrinkle for 

SHE: This is No Man's Land. 
HE: This is where you you (pause) 
SHE: Yes all those things. (She crosses to the bureau.) 
See, here's my rouge eye pencils. 
HE: I didn't know you were that way. 
SHE: What did you expect? 

HE: I thought you'd be sort of sort of sexless, you 
know, swim and play golf. 

SHE: Oh, I do but not in business hours. 

HE: Business? 

SHE: Six to two strictly. 


HE: I'd like to have some stock in the corporation. 

SHE: Oh, it's not a corporation it's just "Rosalind, 
Unlimited." Fifty-one shares, name, good- will, and 
everything goes at $25,000 a year. 

HE: (Disapprovingly) Sort of a chilly proposition. 

SHE: Well, Amory, you don't mind do you? When 
I meet a man that doesn't bore me to death after two 
weeks, perhaps it'll be different. 

HE: Odd, you have the same point of view on men 
that I have on women. 

SHE: I'm not really feminine, you know in my mind. 

HE: (Interested) Go on. 

SHE: No, you you go on you've made me talk 
about myself. That's against the rules. 

HE: Rules? 

SHE: My own rules but you Oh, Amory, I hear 
you're brilliant. The family expects so much of you. 

HE: How encouraging! 

SHE: Alec said you'd taught him to think. Did you? 
I didn't believe any one could. 

HE: No. I'm really quite dull. 

(He evidently doesn't intend this to be taken seri- 

SHE: Liar. 

HE: I'm I'm religious I'm literary. I've I've 
even written poems. 

SHE: Vers libre splendid! (She declaims.) 

"The trees are green, 
The birds are singing in the trees, 
The girl sips her poison 
The bird flies away the girl dies." 

HE: (Laughing) No, not that kind. 
SHE: (Suddenly) I Like you. 
HE: Don't. 


SHE: Modest too 

HE: I'm afraid of you. I'm always afraid of a girl 
until I've kissed her. 

SHE: (Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over. 

HE: So I'll always be afraid of you. 

SHE: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will. 
(A slight hesitation on both their parts.) 

HE: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a fright- 
ful thing to ask. 

SHE: (Knowing what's coming) After five minutes. 

HE: But will you kiss me? Or are you afraid? 

SHE: I'm never afraid but your reasons are so poor. 

HE: Rosalind, I really want to kiss you. 

SHE: So do I. 

(They kiss definitely and thoroughly.) 

HE: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity 

SHE: Is yours? 

HE: No, it's only aroused. 
(He looks it.) 

SHE: (Dreamily) I've kissed dozens of men. I sup- 
pose I'll kiss dozens more. 

HE: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you could like 

SHE: Most people like the way I kiss. 

HE: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me 
once more, Rosalind. 

SHE: No my curiosity is generally satisfied at one. 

HE (Discouraged) Is that a rule? 

SHE: I make rules to fit the cases. 

HE: You and I are somewhat alike except that I'm 
years older in experience. 

SHE: How old are you? 

HE: Almost twenty- three. You? 

SHE: Nineteen just. 


HE: I suppose you're the product of a fashionable 

SHE: No Fm fairly raw material. I was expelled 
from Spence I've forgotten why. 

HE: What's your general trend? 

SHE: Oh, I'm bright, quite selfish, emotional when 
aroused, fond of admiration 

HE: (Suddenly} I don't want to fall in love with 

SHE: (Raising her eyebrows) Nobody asked you to. 

HE: (Continuing coldly) But I probably will. I love 
your mouth. 

SHE: Hush ! Please don't fall in love with my mouth 
hair, eyes, shoulders, slippers but not my mouth. 
Everybody falls in love with my mouth. 

HE: It's quite beautiful. 

SHE: It's too small. 

HE: No it isn't let's see. 

(He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.) 

SHE: (Rather moved] Say something sweet. 

HE: (Frightened) Lord help me. 

SHE: (Drawing away) Well, don't if it's so hard. 

HE: Shall we pretend? So soon? 

SHE: We haven't the same standards of time as other 

HE: Already it's other people. 

SHE: Let's pretend. 

HE: No I can't it's sentiment 

SHE: You're not sentimental? 

HE: No, I'm romantic a sentimental person thinks 
things will last a romantic person hopes against hope 
that they won't. Sentiment is emotional. 

SHE: And you're not? (With her eyes half -dosed.) 
You probably flatter yourself that that's a superior at- 


HE: Well Rosalind, Rosalind, don't argue kiss me 

SHE: (Quite chilly now) No I have no desire to kiss 

HE: (Openly taken aback} You wanted to kiss me a 
minute ago. 

SHE: This is now. 

HE: I'd better go. 

SHE: I suppose so. 

(He goes toward the door.} 

SHE: Oh! 

(He turns} 

SHE: (Laughing) Score Home Team: One hundred 
Opponents: Zero. 

(He starts back} 

SHE: (Quickly) Rain no game. 
(He goes out.} 

(She goes quietly to the chiffonier, takes out a 
cigarette-case and hides it in the side drawer of a 
desk. Her mother enters, note-book in hand} 

MRS. CONNAGE: Good I've been wanting to speak 
to you alone before we go down-stairs. 

ROSALIND : Heavens ! you frighten me ! 

MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind, you've been a very ex- 
pensive proposition. 

ROSALIND: (Resignedly} Yes. 

MRS. CONNAGE: And you know your father hasn't 
what he once had. 

ROSALIND: (Making a wry face} Oh, please don't talk 
about money. 

MRS. CONNAGE: You can't do anything without it. 
This is our last year in this house and unless things 
change Cecelia won't have the advantages you've had. 

ROSALIND: (Impatiently) Well what is it? 

MRS. CONNAGE: So I ask you to please mind me in 


several things I've put down in my note-book. The first 
one is: don't disappear with young men. There may be 
a time when it's valuable, but at present I want you on 
the dance-floor where I can find you. There are certain 
men I want to have you meet and I don't like finding 
you in some corner of the conservatory exchanging silli- 
ness with any one or listening to it. 

ROSALIND: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it is bet- 

MRS. CONNAGE: And don't waste a lot of time with 
the college set little boys nineteen and twenty years 
old. I don't mind a prom or a football game, but stay- 
ing away from advantageous parties to eat in little cafes 
down-town with Tom, Dick, and Harry 

ROSALIND: (Offering her code, which is, in its way, 
quite as high as her mother's) Mother, it's done you 
can't run everything now the way you did in the early 

MRS. CONNAGE: (Paying no attention) There are sev- 
eral bachelor friends of your father's that I want you to 
meet to-night youngish men. 

ROSALIND: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five? 

MRS. CONNAGE: (Sharply) Why not? 

ROSALIND : Oh, quite all right they know lif e and are 
so adorably tired looking (shakes her head) but they will 

MRS. CONNAGE: I haven't met Mr. Elaine but I 
don't think you'll care for him. He doesn't sound like 
a money-maker. 

ROSALIND: Mother, I never think about money. 

MRS. CONNAGE: You never keep it long enough to 
think about it 

ROSALIND : (Sighs) Yes, I suppose some day I'll marry 
a ton of it out of sheer boredom. 

MRS. CONNAGE: (Referring to note-book) I had a wire 


from Hartford. Dawson Ryder is coming up. Now 
there's a young man I like, and he's floating in money. 
It seems to me that since you seem tired of Howard 
Gillespie you might give Mr. Ryder some encourage- 
ment. This is the third time he's been up in a month. 

ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard 

MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable 
every time he comes. 

ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre- 
battle affairs. They're all wrong. 

MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us 
proud of you to-night. 
ROSALIND: Don't you think I'm beautiful? 
MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are. 

(From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin 
being tuned, the roll of a drum. MBS. CONNAGE 
turns quickly to her daughter.) 
ROSALIND: One minute ! 

(Her mother leaves. ROSALIND goes to the glass 
where she gazes at herself with great satisfaction. 
She kisses her hand and touches her mirrored 
mouth with it. Then she turns out the lights and 
leaves the room. Silence for a moment. A few 
chords from the piano, the discreet patter of faint 
drums, the rustle of new silk, all blend on the 
staircase outside and drift in through the partly 
opened door. Bundled figures pass in the 
lighted hall. The laughter heard below becomes 
doubled and multiplied. Then some one comes 
in, closes the door, and switches on the lights. 
It is CECELIA. She goes to tfie chiffonier, looks 
in the drawers, hesitates then to the desk whence 
she takes the cigarette-case and extracts one. She 


lights it and then, puffing and blowing, -walks 
toward the mirror.) 

CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, 
yes, coming out is such a farce nowadays, you know. 
One really plays around so much before one is seven- 
teen, that it's positively anticlimax. (Shaking hands 
with a visionary middle-aged nobleman.) Yes, your 
grace I b'lieve I've heard my sister speak of you. 
Have a puff they're very good. They're they're 
Coronas. You don't smoke? What a pity! The king 
doesn't allow it, I suppose. Yes, I'll dance. 

(So she dances around the room to a tune from 
down-stairs, her arms outstretched to an imagi- 
nary partner, the cigarette waving in her hand.) 


The corner of a den down-stairs, filled by a very comfort- 
able leather lounge. A small light is on each side 
above, and in the middle, over the couch hangs a paint- 
ing of a very old, very dignified gentleman, period 
1860. Outside the music is heard in a fox-trot. 
ROSALIND is seated on the lounge and on her left is HOWARD 
GTT.T.KSPIE, a vapid youth of about twenty-four. He 
is obviously very unhappy, and she is quite bored. 
GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I've changed. 
I feel the same toward you. 
ROSALIND: But you don't look the same to me. 
GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you 
liked me because I was so blas6, so indifferent I still am. 
ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you be- 
cause you had brown eyes and thin legs. 

GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They're still thin and brown. 
You're a vampire, that's all. 
ROSALIND: The only thing I know about vamping is 


what's on the piano score. What confuses men is that 
I'm perfectly natural. I used to think you were never 
jealous. Now you follow me with your eyes wherever 
I go. 

GILLESPIE: I love you. 

ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it. 

GILLESPIE: And you haven't kissed me for two weeks. 
I had an idea that after a girl was kissed she was was 

ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all 
over again every time you see me. 

GILLESPIE: Are you serious? 

ROSALIND: About as usual. There used to be two 

i kinds of kisses: First when girls were kissed and de- 

jserted; second, when they were engaged. Now there's 

;a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If 

Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he'd kissed a girl, 

every one knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones 

of 1919 brags the same every one knows it's because he 

can't kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl 

can beat a man nowadays. 

GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men? 

ROSALIND: (Leaning forward confidentially} For that 
first moment, when he's interested. There is a moment 
Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word some- 
thing that makes it worth while. 

GILLESPIE: And then? 

ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about 
himself. Pretty soon he thinks of nothing but being 
alone with you he sulks, he won't fight, he doesn't want 
to play Victory ! 

(Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, 
wealthy, faithful to his own, a bore perhaps, but 
steady and sure of success,) 

RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind. 


ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now 
I know I haven't got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, 
this is Mr. Gillespie. 

(They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremen- 
dously downcast.} * 

RYDER: Your party is certainly a success. 

ROSALIND: Is it I haven't seen it lately. I'm 
weary Do you mind sitting out a minute? 

RYDER: Mind I'm delighted. You know I loathe 
this "rushing" idea. See a girl yesterday, to-day, to- 

ROSALIND: Dawson! 

RYDER: What? 

ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me. 

RYDER: (Startled) What Oh you know you're re- 
markable ! 

ROSALIND: Because you know I'm an awful proposi- 
tion. Any one who marries me will have his hands full. 
I'm mean mighty mean. 

RYDER: Oh, I wouldn't say that. 

ROSALIND: Oh, yes, I am especially to the people 
nearest to me. (She rises.) Come, let's go. I've 
changed my mind and I want to dance. Mother is prob- 
ably having a fit. 

(Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.) 

CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an 

ALEC: (Gloomily) I'll go if you want me to. 

CECELIA: Good heavens, no with whom would I be- 
gin the next dance? (Sighs.) There's no color in a 
dance since the French officers went back. 

ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don't want Amory to fall in 
love with Rosalind. 

CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what 
you did want. 


ALEC: I did, but since seeing these girls I don't 
know. I'm awfully attached to Amory. He's sensitive 
and I don't want him to break his heart over somebody 
who doesn't care about him. 

CECELIA: He's very good looking. 

ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won't marry him, but a 
girl doesn't have to marry a man to break his heart. 

CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret. 

ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It's lucky 
for some that the Lord gave you a pug nose. 
(Enter MRS. CONNAGE.) 

MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind? 

ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you've come to the best 
people to find out. She'd naturally be with us. 

MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight 
bachelor millionaires to meet her. 

ALEC: You might form a squad and march through 
the halls. 

MRS. CONNAGE: I'm perfectly serious for all I know 
she may be at the Cocoanut Grove with some football 
player on the night of her debut. You look left and 

ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn't you better send the butler 
through the cellar? 

MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don't 
think she'd be there? 

CECELIA: He's only joking, mother. 

ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of 
beer with some high hurdler. 

MRS. CONNAGE: Let's look right away. 

(They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.) 

GILLESPIE: Rosalind Once more I ask you. Don't 
you care a blessed thing about me? 
(AMORY walks in briskly.) 

AMORY: My dance. 


ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Elaine. 

GILLESPIE: I've met Mr. Elaine. From Lake Geneva, 
aren't you ? 

AMORY: Yes. 

GILLESPIE: (Desperately} Fve been there. It's in the 
the Middle West, isn't it? 

AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt 
that I'd rather be provincial hot-tamale than soup with- 
out seasoning. 


AMORY: Oh, no ofiense. 

(GILLESPIE bows and leaves.) 

ROSALIND: He's too much people. 

AMORY: I was in love with a people once. 


AMORY: Oh, yes her name was Isabelle nothing at 
all to her except what I read into her. 

ROSALIND: What happened? 

AMORY: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter 
than I was then she threw me over. Said I was crit- 
ical and impractical, you know. 

ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical? 

AMORY: Oh drive a car, but can't change a tire. 

ROSALIND: What are you going to do? 

AMORY: Can't say run for President, write 

ROSALIND: Greenwich Village? 

AMORY: Good heavens, no I said write not drink. 

ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are 
usually so homely. 

AMORY: I feel as if I'd known you for ages. 

ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the 
"pyramid" story? 

AMORY: No I was going to make it French. I was 
Louis XIV and you were one of my my (Changing 
his tone.) Suppose we fell in love. 


ROSALIND: I've suggested pretending. 
AMORY: If we did it would be very big. 

AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly 
capable of great loves. 
ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend. 

(Very deliberately they kiss.) 

AMORY: I can't say sweet things. But you are beau- 

ROSALIND: Not that. 
AMORY: What then? 

ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing only I want senti- 
ment, real sentiment and I never find it. 

AMORY: I never find anything else in the world and 
I loathe it. 

ROSALIND: It's so hard to find a male to gratify one's 
artistic taste. 

(Some one has opened a door and the music of a 

waltz surges into the room. ROSALIND rises.) 
ROSALIND: Listen ! they're playing "Kiss Me Again." 

(He looks at her.) 
AMORY: Well? 

AMORY: (Softly the battle lost) I love you. 
ROSALIND: I love you now. 

(They kiss.) 
* AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done? 

ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don't talk. Kiss me again. 
/ AMORY: I don't know why or how, but I love you 
from the moment I saw you. 
ROSALIND: Me too I I oh, to-njght's to-night. 
(Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice 

says: "Oh, excuse me," and goes) 
ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don't let me 
go I don't care who knows what I do. 


AMORY: Say it! 

ROSALIND: I love you now. (They part.} Oh I 
am very youthful, thank God and rather beautiful, 
thank God and happy, thank God, thank God 
(She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy, adds) 
Poor Amory ! 

(He kisses her again.) 


Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply 
and passionately in love. The critical qualities which 
had spoiled for each of them a dozen romances were 
dulled by the great wave of emotion that washed over 

"It may be an insane love-affair," she told her anxious 
mother, "but it's not inane." 

The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency 
early in March, where he alternated between astonish- 
ing bursts of rather exceptional work and wild dreams of 
becoming suddenly rich and touring Italy with Rosalind. 

They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, 
and nearly every evening always in a sort of breathless 
hush, as if they feared that any minute the spell would 
break and drop them out of this paradise of rose and 
flame. But the spell became a trance, seemed to increase 
from day to day; they began to talk of marrying in 
July in June. All life was transmitted into terms of 
their love, all experience, all desires, all ambitions, were 
nullified their senses of humor crawled into corners to 
sleep; their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable 
and scarcely regretted juvenalia. 

For the second time in his life Amory had had a 
complete bouleversement and was hurrying into line 
with his generation. 



Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought 
of the night as inevitably his the pageantry and car- 
nival of rich dusk and dim streets ... it seemed that 
he had closed the book of fading harmonies at .last and 
stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Every- 
where these countless lights, this promise of a night of 
streets and singing he moved in a half-dream through 
the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind hurrying 
toward him with eager feet from every corner. . . . 
How the unforgetable faces of dusk would blend to 
her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would 
blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunken- 
ness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even 
his dreams now were faint violins drifting like summer 
sounds upon the summer air. 

The room was in darkness except for the faint glow of 
Tom's cigarette where he lounged by the open window. 
As the door shut behind him, Amory stood a moment 
with his back against it. 

"Hello, Benvenuto Elaine. How went the advertising 
business to-day?" 

Amory sprawled on a couch. 

"I loathed it as usual ! " The momentary vision of the 
bustling agency was displaced quickly by another picture. 

" My God ! She's wonderful ! " 

Tom sighed. 

"I can't tell you," repeated Amory, "just how won- 
derful she is. I don't want you to know. I don't want 
any one to know." 

Another sigh came from the window quite a re- 
signed sigh. 

"She's life and hope and happiness, my whole world 


He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid. 
"Oh, Golly, Tom!" 


"Sit like we do," she whispered. 

He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that 
she could nestle inside them. 

"I knew you'd come to-night," she said softly, "like 
summer, just when I needed you most . . . darling 
. . . darling ..." 

His lips moved lazily over her face. 

"You taste so good," he sighed. 

"How do you mean, lover?" 

"Oh,, just sweet, just sweet . . ."he held her closer. 

"Amory," she whispered, "when you're ready for me 
I'll marry you." 

"We won't have much at first." 

"Don't!" she cried. "It hurts when you reproach 
yourself for what you can't give me. I've^got your pre- 
cious self and that's enough for me." 

"Tell me . . ." 

"You know, don't you? Oh, you know." 

"Yes, but I want to hear you say it." 

"I love you, Amory, with all my heart. 1 * 

"Always, will you?" 
."All my life Oh, Amory " 


"I want to belong to you. I want your people to be 
my people. I want to have your babies." 

"But I haven't any people." 

"Don't laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me." 

"I'll do what you want," he said. 

"No, I'll do what you want. We're you not me. 
Oh, you're so much a part, so much all of me ..." 


He closed his eyes. 

"I'm so happy that I'm frightened. Wouldn't it be 
awful if this was was the high point? ..." 

She looked at him dreamily. 

"Beauty and love pass, I know. . . . Oh, there's 
sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little 
sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the 
death of roses " 

"Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of 
agony. ..." 

"And, Amory, we're beautiful, I know. I'm sure God 
loves us " 

"He loves you. You're his most precious posses- 

"I'm not his, I'm yours. Amory, I belong to you. 
For the first time I regret all the other kisses; now I 
know how much a kiss can mean." 

Then they would smoke and he would tell her about 
his day at the office and where they might live. Some- 
times, when he was particularly loquacious, she went to 
sleep in his arms, but he loved that Rosalind all 
Rosalinds as he had never in the world loved any one 
else. Intangibly fleeting, unrememberable hours. 


One day Amory and Howard Gillespie meeting by 
accident down-town took lunch together, and Amory 
heard a story that deKghted him. Gillespie after several 
cocktails was in a talkative mood; he began by telling 
Amory that he was sure Rosalind was slightly eccentric. 

He had gone with her on a swimming party up in 
Westchester County, and some one mentioned that An- 
nette Kellerman had been there one day on a visit 
and had dived from the top of a rickety, thirty-foot 


summer-house. Immediately Rosalind insisted that 
Howard should climb up with her to see what it looked 

A minute later, as he sat and dangled his feet on the 
edge, a form shot by him; Rosalind, her arms spread in 
a beautiful swan dive, had sailed through the air into 
the clear water. 

"Of course 7 had to go, after that and I nearly killed 
myself. I thought I was pretty good to even try it. 
Nobody else in the party tried it. Well, afterward 
Rosalind had the nerve to ask me why I stooped over 
when I dove. 'It didn't make it any easier,' she said, 
'it just took all the courage out of it.' I ask you, what 
can a man do with a girl like that ? Unnecessary, I call 

Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smil- 
ing delightedly all through lunch. He thought perhaps 
he was one of these hollow optimists. 


Again the library of the Connage house. ROSALIND is 

alone, sitting on the lounge staring very moodily and 
unhappily at nothing. She has changed perceptibly 
she is a trifle thinner for one thing; the light in her 
eyes is not so bright; she looks easily a year older. 
Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She 

takes in ROSALIND with a nervous glance. 
MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night? 

(ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no 


MRS. CONNAGE: Alec is coming up to take me to this 
Barrie play, "Et tu, Brutus." (She perceives that she is 
talking to tierself.) Rosalind ! I asked you who is com- 
ing to-night? 


ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh what oh Amory 

MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so many 
admirers lately that I couldn't imagine which one. 
(ROSALIND doesn't answer.) Dawson Ryder is more pa- 
tient than I thought he'd be. You haven't given him 
an evening this week. 
ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite 

new to her face.) Mother please 

MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, / won't interfere. You've al- 
ready wasted over two months on a theoretical genius 
who hasn't a penny to his name, but go ahead, waste 
your life on him. 7 won't interfere. 

ROSALIND: (As if repeating a tiresome lesson) You 
know he has a little income and you know he's earning 

thirty-five dollars a week in advertising 

MRS. CONNAGE: And it wouldn't buy your clothes. 
(She pauses but ROSALIND makes no reply.) I have your 
best interests at heart when I tell you not to take a step 
you'll spend your days regretting. It's not as if your 
father could help you. Things have been hard for him 
lately and he's an old man. You'd be dependent abso- 
lutely on a dreamer, a nice, well-born boy, but a dreamer 
merely clever. (She implies that this quality in itself is 
rather vicious) 

ROSALIND: For heaven's sake, mother 

(A maid appears, announces Mr. Elaine who fol- 
lows immediately. AMORY'S friends have been 
telling him for ten days that he "looks like the 
wrath of God" and he does. As a matter of fact 
he has not been able to eat a mouthful in the last 
thirty-six hours) 

AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage. 
MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory. 
(AMORY and ROSALIND exchange glances and 
ALEC comes in. ALEC'S attitude throughout has 


been neutral. He believes in his heart that the 
marriage would make AMORY mediocre and 
ROSALIND miserable, but he feels a great sym- 
pathy for both of them.) 
ALEC: Hi, Amory ! 

AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he'd meet you at the 

ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How's the advertising 
to-day? Write some brilliant copy? 

AMORY: Oh, it's about the same. I got a raise 
(Every one looks at him rather eagerly) of two dollars a 
week. (General collapse.) 

MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car. 

(A good night, rather chilly in sections. After MRS. 

CONNAGE and ALEC go out there is a pause. 

ROSALIND still stares moodily at the fireplace. 

AMORY goes to her and puts his arm around her.) 

AMORY: Darling girl. 

(They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his 
hand, covers it with kisses and holds it to her 

ROSALIND: (Sadly) I love your hands, more than any- 
thing. I see them often when you're away from me so 
tired; I know every line of them. Dear hands! 

(Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to 

cry a tearless sobbing.) 
' AMORY: Rosalind ! 

ROSALIND : Oh, we're so darned pitiful ! 
AMORY: Rosalind! 
ROSALIND : Oh, I want to die ! 

AMORY: Rosalind, another night of this and I'll go to 
pieces. You've been this way four days now. You've 
got to be more encouraging or I can't work or eat or 
sleep. (He looks around helplessly as if searching for new 
"words to clothe an old, shop-worn phrase.) We'll have to 


make a start. I like having to make a start together. 
(His forced hopefulness fades as he sees her unresponsive.} 
What's the matter? (He gets up suddenly and starts to 
pace the floor.} It's Dawson Ryder, that's what it is. 
He's been working on your nerves. You've been with 
him every afternoon for a week. People come and tell 
me they've seen you together, and I have to smile and 
nod and pretend it hasn't the slightest significance for 
me. And you won't tell me anything as it develops. 

ROSALIND: Amory, if you don't sit down I'll scream. 

AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her} Oh, Lord. 

ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently} You know I love 
you, don't you? 

AMORY: Yes. 

ROSALIND: You know I'll always love you 

AMORY: Don't talk that way; you frighten me. It 
sounds as if we weren't going to have each other. (She 
cries a little and rising from the couch goes to the armchair.} 
I've felt all afternoon that things were worse. I nearly 
went wild down at the office couldn't write a. line. 
Tell me everything. 

ROSALIND: There's nothing to tell, I say. I'm just 

AMORY: Rosalind, you're playing with the idea of 
marrying Dawson Ryder. 

ROSALIND: (After a pause} He's been asking me to all 

AMORY: Well, he's got his nerve! 

ROSALIND: (After another pause} I like him. 

AMORY: Don't say that. It hurts me. 

ROSALIND: Don't be a silly idiot. You know you're 
the only man I've ever loved, ever will love. 

AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let's get married next 

ROSALIND: We can't. 


AMORY: Why not? 

ROSALIND: Oh, we can't. I'd be your squaw in some 
horrible place. 

AMORY: We'll have two hundred and seventy-five 
dollars a month all told. 

ROSALIND: Darling, I don't even do my own hair, 

AMORY: I'll do it for you. 

ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob} Thanks. 

AMORY: Rosalind, you can't be thinking of marrying 
some one else. Tell me ! You leave me in the dark. I 
can help you fight it out if you'll only tell me. 

ROSALIND: It's just us. We're pitiful, that's all. 
The very qualities I love you for are the ones that will 
always make you a failure. 

AMORY: (Grimly) Go on. 

ROSALIND: Oh it is Dawson Ryder. He's so re- 
liable, I almost feel that he'd be a a background. 

AMORY: You don't love him. 

ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he's a 
good man and a strong one. 

AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes he's that. 

ROSALIND: Well here's one little thing. There was 
a little poor boy we met in Rye Tuesday afternoon 
and, oh, Dawson took him on his lap and talked to him 
and promised him an Indian suit and next day he re- 
membered and bought it and, oh, it was so sweet and 
I couldn't help thinking he'd be so nice to to our chil- 
dren take care of them and I wouldn't have to worry. 

AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind! 
1 ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don't look so 
consciously suffering. 

AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other! 

ROSALIND: (Commencing to sob again) It's been so 
perfect you and I. So like a dream that I'd longed for 


and never thought I'd find. The first real unselfishness 
I've ever felt in my life. And I can't see it fade out in a 
colorless atmosphere ! 

AMORY: It won't it won't! 

ROSALIND: I'd rather keep it as a beautiful memory 
tucked away in my heart. 

AMORY: Yes, women can do that but not men. I'd 
remember always, not the beauty of it while it lasted, 
but just the bitterness, the long bitterness. 


AMORY: All the years never to see you, never to kiss 
you, just a gate shut and barred you don't dare be 
my wife. 

ROSALIND: No no I'm taking the hardest course, 
the strongest course. Marrying you would be a failure 
and I never fail if you don't stop walking up and down 
I'll scream! 

(Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.) 

AMORY: Come over here and kiss me. 


AMORY: Don't you want to kiss me? 

ROSALIND: To-night I want you to love me calmly 
and coolly. 

AMORY: The beginning of the end. 

ROSALIND: (With a burst of insight) Arnory, you're 
young. I'm young. People excuse us now for our poses 
and vanities, for treating people like Sancho and yet 
getting away with it. They excuse us now. But you've 
got a lot of knocks coming to you 

AMORY: And you're afraid to take them with me. 

ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read 
somewhere you'll say Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh 
but listen: 

"For this is wisdom to love and live, 
To take what fate or the gods may give, 


To ask no question, to make no prayer, 
To kiss the lips and caress the hair, 
Speed passion's ebb as we greet its flow, 
To have and to hold, and, in time let go." 

AMORY: But we haven't had. 

ROSALIND: Amory, I'm yours you know it. There 
have been times in the last month I'd have been com- 
pletely yours if you'd said so. But I can't marry you 
and ruin both our lives. 

AMORY: We've got to take our chance for happiness. 
ROSALIND: Dawson says I'd learn to love him. 

(AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not 

move. The life seems suddenly gone out of him.) 

ROSALIND: Lover ! Lover ! I can't do with you, and 

I can't imagine life without you. 

AMORY: Rosalind, we're on each other's nerves. It's 

just that we're both high-strung, and this week 

(His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and 

taking his face in her hands, kisses him.} 
ROSALIND: I can't, Amory. I can't be shut away 
from the trees and flowers, cooped up in a little flat, 
waiting for you. You'd hate me in a narrow atmosphere. 
I'd make you hate me. 

(Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.} 

AMORY: Rosalind 

ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go Don't make it harder! 

I 'can't stand it 

AMORY (His face drawn, his voice strained} Do you 
know what you're saying? Do you mean forever? 

(There is a difference somehow in the quality of their 

ROSALIND: Can't you see 

AMORY: I'm afraid I can't if you love me. You're 
afraid of taking two years' knocks with me. 
ROSALIND : I wouldn't be the Rosalind you love. 


AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can't give you up ! I 
can't, that's all ! I've got to have you ! 

ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You're being a 
baby now. 

AMORY: (Wildly) I don't care! You're spoiling our 
lives ! 

ROSALIND: I'm doing the wise thing, the only thing. 
AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder? 
ROSALIND: Oh, don't ask me. You know I'm old in 
some ways in others well, I'm .just a little girl. I 
like sunshine and pretty things and cheerfulness and I 
dread responsibility. I don't want to think about pots 
and kitchens and brooms. I want to worry whether my 
legs will get slick and browi: when I swim in the summer. 
AMORY: And you love me. 

ROSALIND: That's just why it has to end. Drifting 
hurts too much. We can't have any more scenes like 

(She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to 

him. Their eyes blind again with tears.) 
AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don't! Keep 
it, please oh, don't break my heart ! 

(She presses the ring softly into his hand.) 
ROSALIND (Brokenly) You'd better go. 

AMORY: Good-by 

(She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, 
infinite sadness.) 

ROSALIND: Don't ever forget me, Amory 

AMORY: Good-by 

(He goes to the door, fumbles for the knob, finds it 

she sees him throw back his head and he is gone. 

Gone she half starts from the lounge and then 

sinks forward on her face into the pillows.) 

ROSALIND : Oh, God, I want to die ! (After a moment 

she rises and with her eyes closed feels her way to the door. 


Then she turns and looks once more at the room. Here they 
had sat and dreamed: that tray she had so often filled with 
matches far him; that shade that they had discreetly low- 
ered one long Sunday afternoon. Misty-eyed she stands 
and remembers; she speaks aloud.) Oh, Amory, what have 
I done to you? 

(And deep under the aching sadness that will pass 
in time, Rosalind feels that she has lost some- 
thing, she knows not what, she knows not why.) 

THE Knickerbocker Bar, beamed upon by Maxfield 
Parrish's jovial, colorful "Old King Cole," was well 
crowded. Amory stopped in the entrance and looked at 
his wrist-watch; he wanted particularly to know the 
time, for something in his mind that catalogued and 
classified liked to chip things off cleanly. Later it would 
satisfy him in a vague way to be able to think "that 
thing ended at exactly twenty minutes after eight on 
Thursday, June 10, 1919." This was allowing for the 
walk from her house a walk concerning which he had 
afterward not the faintest recollection. 

He was in rather grotesque condition: two days of 
worry and nervousness, of sleepless nights, of untouched 
meals, culminating in the emotional crisis and Rosa- 
lind's abrupt decision the strain of it had drugged the 
foreground of his mind into a merciful coma. As he 
fumbled clumsily with the olives at the free-lunch table, 
a man approached and spoke to him, and the olives 
dropped from his nervous hands. 

"Well, Amory ..." 

It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had 
no idea of the name. 

"Hello, old boy " he heard himself saying. 

"Name's Jim Wilson you've forgotten/' 

"Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember." 

"Going to reunion?" 

"You know!" Simultaneously he realized that he 
was not going to reunion. 

"Get overseas?" 



Amory nodded, his eyes staring oddly. Stepping 
back to let some one pass, he knocked the dish of olives 
to a crash on the floor. 

"Too bad," he muttered. "Have a drink?" 

Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and 
slapped him on the back. 

"You've had plenty, old boy." 

Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew em- 
barrassed under the scrutiny. 

"Plenty, hell ! " said Amory finally. "I haven't had a 
drink to-day." 

Wilson looked incredulous. 

"Have a drink or not?" cried Amory rudely. 

Together they sought the bar. 

"Rye high." 

"I'll just take a Bronx." 

Wilson had another; Amory had several more. They 
decided to sit down. At ten o'clock Wilson was dis- 
placed by Carling, class of '15. Amory, his head 
spinning gorgeously, layer upon layer of soft satisfac- 
tion setting over the bruised spots of his spirit, was dis- 
coursing volubly on the war. 

" 'S a mental was'e," he insisted with owl-like wis- 
dom. "Two years my life spent inalleshual vacuity. 
Los' idealism, got be physcal anmal," he shook his fist 
expressively at Old King Cole, "got be Prussian 'bout 
ev'thing, women 'specially. Use' be straight 'bout 
women college. Now don'givadam." He expressed his 
lack of principle by sweeping a seltzer bottle with a 
broad gesture to noisy extinction on the floor, but this 
did not interrupt his speech. "Seek pleasure where find 
it for to-morrow die. 'At's philos'phy for me now on." 

Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, con- 

"Use* wonder 'bout things people satisfied com- 


promise, fif'y-fif'y att'tude on life. Now don' wonder, 
don' wonder " He became so emphatic in impressing 
on Carling the fact that he didn't wonder that he lost 
the thread of his discourse and concluded by announcing 
to the bar at large that he was a "physcal anmal." 

"What are you celebrating, Amory?" 

Amory leaned forward confidentially. 

"Cel'brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my 
life. Can't tell you 'bout it " 

He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bar- 

"Give him a bromo-seltzer." 

Amory shook his head indignantly. 

"None that stuff!" 

"But listen, Amory, you're making yourself sick. 
You're white as a ghost." 

Amory considered the question. He tried to look at 
himself in the mirror but even by squinting up one eye 
could only see as far as the row of bottles behind the bar. 

"Like som'n solid. We go get some some salad." 

He settled his coat with an attempt at nonchalance, 
but letting go of the bar was too much for him, and he 
slumped against a chair. 

"We'll go over to Shanley's," suggested Carling, of- 
fering an elbow. 

With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in 
motion enough to propel him across Forty-second Street. 

Shanley's was very dim. He was conscious that he 
was talking in a loud voice, very succinctly and con- 
vincingly, he thought, about a desire to crush people 
under his heel. He consumed three club sandwiches, 
devouring each as though it were no larger than a choco- 
late-drop. Then Rosalind began popping into his mind 
again, and he found his lips forming her name over and 
over. Next he was sleepy, and he had a hazy, listless 


sense of people in dress suits, probably waiters, gathering 
around the table. . . . 

... He was in a room and Carling was saying some- 
thing about a knot in his shoe-lace. 

"Nemmine," he managed to articulate drowsily. 
"Sleep in 'em. . . ." 


He awoke laughing and his eyes lazily roamed his 
surroundings, evidently a bedroom and bath in a good 
hotel. His head was whirring and picture after picture 
was forming and blurring and melting before his eyes, 
but beyond the desire to laugh he had no entirely con- 
scious reaction. He reached for the 'phone beside his 

"Hello what hotel is this? 

"Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye high- 
balls " 

He lay for a moment and wondered idly whether they'd 
send up a bottle or just two of those little glass con- 
tainers. Then, with an effort, he struggled out of bed 
and ambled into the bathroom. 

When he emerged, rubbing himself lazily with a 
towel, he found the bar boy with the drinks and had a 
sudden desire to kid him. On reflection he decided that 
this- would be undignified, so he waved him away. 

As the new alcohol tumbled into his stomach and 
warmed him, the isolated pictures began slowly to form 
a cinema reel of the day before. Again he saw Rosalind 
curled weeping among the pillows, again he felt her 
tears against his cheek. Her words began ringing in 
his ears: "Don't ever forget me, Amory don't ever 
forget me " 

"Hell!" he faltered aloud, and then he choked and 


collapsed on the bed in a shaken spasm of grief. After 
a minute he opened his eyes and regarded the ceiling. 

"Damned fool !" he exclaimed in disgust, and with a 
voluminous sigh rose and approached the bottle. After 
another glass he gave way loosely to the luxury of tears. 
Purposely he called up into his mind little incidents of 
the vanished spring, phrased to himself emotions that 
would make him react even more strongly to sorrow. 

"We were so happy," he intoned dramatically, "so 
very happy." Then he gave way again and knelt be- 
side the bed, his head half -buried in the pillow. 

"My own girl my own Oh " 

He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a 
flood from his eyes. 

"Oh . . . my baby girl, all I had, all I wanted ! . . . 
Oh, my girl, come back, come back ! I need you . . . 
need you . . . we're so pitiful . . . just misery we 
brought each other. . . . She'll be shut away from me. 
... I can't see her; I can't be her friend. It's got to be 
that way it's got to be " 

And then again: 

"We've been so happy, so very happy. ..." 

He rose to his feet and threw himself on the bed in an 
ecstasy of sentiment, and then lay exhausted while he 
realized slowly that he had been very drunk the night 
before, and that his head was spinning again wildly. 
He laughed, rose, and crossed again to Lethe. . . . 

At noon he ran into a crowd in the Biltmore bar, and 
the riot began again. He had a vague recollection after- 
ward of discussing French poetry with a British officer 
who was introduced to him as "Captain Corn, of his 
Majesty's Foot," and he remembered attempting to re- 
cite " Clair de Lune" at luncheon; then he slept in a big, 
soft chair until almost five o'clock when another crowd 
found and woke him; there followed an alcoholic dress- 


ing of several temperaments for the ordeal of dinner. 
They selected theatre tickets at Tyson's for a play that 
had a four-drink programme -a play with two monoto- 
nous voices, with turbid, gloomy scenes, and lighting 
effects that were hard to follow when his eyes behaved so 
amazingly. He imagined afterward that it must have 
been "The Jest." . . . 

. . . Then the Cocoanut Grove, where Amory slept 
again on a little balcony outside. Out in Shanley's, 
Yonkers, he became almost logical, and by a careful 
control of the number of high-balls he drank, grew quite 
lucid and garrulous. He found that the party con- 
sisted of five men, two of whom he knew slightly; he 
became righteous about paying his share of the expense 
and insisted in a loud voice on arranging everything 
then and there to the amusement of the tables around 
him. . . . 

Some one mentioned that a famous cabaret star was 
at the next table, so Amory rose and, approaching gal- 
lantly, introduced himself . . . this involved him in an 
argument, first with her escort and then with the head- 
waiter Amory's attitude being a lofty and exaggerated 
courte&y ... he consented, after being confronted with 
irrefutable logic, to being led back to his own table. 

"Decided to commit suicide," he announced sud- 

"When? Next year?" 

"Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room 
at the Commodore, get into a hot bath and open a 

"He's getting morbid !" 

"You need another rye, old boy!" 

"We'll all talk it over to-morrow." 

But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at 


"Did you ever get that way?" he demanded con- 
fidentially fortaccio. 



"My chronic state." 

This provoked discussion. One man said that he got 
so depressed sometimes that he seriously considered it. 
Another agreed that there was nothing to live for. 
"Captain Corn," who had somehow rejoined the party, 
said that in his opinion it was when one's health was 
bad that one felt that way most. Amory's suggestion 
was that they should each order a Bronx, mix broken 
glass in it, and drink it off. To his relief no one ap- 
plauded the idea, so having finished his high-ball, he 
balanced his chin in his hand and his elbow on the 
table a most delicate, scarcely noticeable sleeping 
position, he assured himself and went into a deep 
stupor. . . . 

He was awakened by a woman dinging to him, a 
pretty woman, with brown, disarranged hair and dark 
blue eyes. 

"Take me home!" she cried. 

"Hello!" said Amory, blinking. 

"I like you," she announced tenderly. 

"I like you too." 

He noticed that there was a noisy man in the back- 
ground and that one of his party was arguing with him. 

"Fella I was with's a damn fool," confided the blue- 
eyed woman. "I hate him. I want to go home with 

"You drunk?" queried Amory with intense wisdom. 

She nodded coyly. 

"Go home with him," he advised gravely. "He 
brought you." 


At this point the noisy man in the background broke 
away from his detainers and approached. 

"Say!" he said fiercely. "I brought this girl out 
here and you're butting in ! " 

Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to 
him closer. 

"You let go that girl !" cried the noisy man. 

Amory tried to make his eyes threatening. 

"You go to hell !" he directed finally, and turned his 
attention to the girl. 

"Love first sight," he suggested. 

"I love you," she breathed and nestled close to him. 
She did have beautiful eyes. 

Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory's ear. 

"That's just Margaret Diamond. She's drunk and 
this fellow here brought her. Better let her go." 

"Let him take care of her, then!" shouted Amory 
furiously. "I'm no W. Y. C. A. worker, am I ? am I ? " 

"Let her go!" 

"It's her hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!" 

The crowd around the table thickened. For an in- 
stant a brawl threatened, but a sleek waiter bent back 
Margaret Diamond's fingers until she released her hold 
on Amory, whereupon she slapped the waiter furiously 
in the face and flung her arms about her raging original 

"Oh, Lord!" cried Amory. 

"Let's go!" 

"Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!" 

"Check, waiter." 

"C'mon, Amory. Your romance is over." 

Amory laughed. 

"You don't know how true you spoke. No idea. 
'At's the whole trouble." 



Two mornings later he knocked at the president's 
door at Bascome and Barlow's advertising agency. 

"Come in!" 

Amory entered unsteadily. 

" 'Morning, Mr. Barlow." 

Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and 
set his mouth slightly ajar that he might better listen. 

"Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven't seen you for several 

"No," said Amory. "I'm quitting." 

"Well well this is " 

"I don't like it here." 

"I'm sorry. I thought our relations had been qufte 
ah pleasant. You seemed to be a hard worker a 
little inclined perhaps to write fancy copy 

"I just got tired of it," interrupted Amory rudely. 
"It didn't matter a damn to me whether Harebell's 
flour was any better than any one else's. In fact, I never 
ate any of it. So I got tired of telling people about it 
oh, I know I've been drinking " 

Mr. Barlow's face steeled by several ingots of ex- 

"You asked for a position " 

Amory waved him to silence. 

"And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five 
dollars a week less than a good carpenter." 

"You had just started. You'd never worked before," 
said Mr. Barlow coolly. 

"But it took about ten thousand dollars to educate 
me where I could write your darned stuff for you. 
Anyway, as far as length of service goes, you've got 
stenographers here you've paid fifteen a week for five 


"I'm not going to argue with you, sir," said Mr. 
Barlow rising. 

"Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I'm quit- 

They stood for a moment looking at each other im- 
passively and then Amory turned and left the office. 


Four days after that he returned at last to the apart- 
ment. Tom was engaged on a book review for The New 
Democracy on the staff of which he was employed. They 
regarded each other for a moment in silence. 



"Good Lord, Amory, where'd you get the black eye 
and the jaw?" 

Amory laughed. 

"That's a mere nothing." 

He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders. 

"Look here!" 

Tom emitted a low whistle. 

"What hit you?" 

Amory laughed again. 

"Oh, a lot of people. I got beaten up. Fact." He 
slowly replaced his shirt. "It was bound to come sooner 
or later and I wouldn't have missed it for anything." 

"Who was it?" 

"Well, there were some waiters and a couple of sailors 
and a few stray pedestrians, I guess. It's the strangest 
feeling. You ought to get beaten up just for the experi- 
ence of it. You fall down after a while and everybody 
sort of slashes in at you before you hit the ground then 
they kick you." 

Tom lighted a cigarette. 


"I spent a day chasing you all over town, Amory. 
But you always kept a little ahead of me. I'd say you've 
been on some party." 

Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a ciga- 

"You sober now?" asked Tom quizzically. 

"Pretty sober. Why?" 

"Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him 
to go home and live, so he " 

A spasm of pain shook Amory. 

"Too bad." 

"Yes, it is too bad. We'll have to get some one else 
if we're going to stay here. The rent's going up." 

"Sure. Get anybody. I'll leave it to you, Tom." 

Amory walked into his bedroom. The first thing that 
met his glance was a photograph of Rosalind that he 
had intended to have framed, propped up against a 
mirror on his dresser. He looked at it unmoved. After 
the vivid mental pictures of her that were his portion 
at present, the portrait was curiously unreal. He went 
back into the study. 

"Got a cardboard box?" 

"No," answered Tom, puzzled. "Why should I 
have? Oh, yes there may be one in Alec's room." 

Eventually Amory found what he was looking for and, 
returning to his dresser, opened a drawer full of letters, 
notes, part of a chain, two little handkerchiefs, and some 
snap-shots. As he transferred them carefully to the 
box his mind wandered to some place hi a book where 
the hero, after preserving for a year a cake of his lost 
love's soap, finally washed his hands with it. He laughed 
and began to hum "After you've gone" . . . ceased 
abruptly. . . 

The string broke twice, and then he managed to se- 
cure it, dropped the package into the bottom x>f his 


trunk, and having slammed the lid returned to the 

"Going out?" Tom's voice held an undertone of 



"Couldn't say, old keed." 

"Let's have dinner together." 

"Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I'd eat with him." 



Amory crossed the street and had a high-ball; then he 
walked to Washington Square and found a top seat on 
a bus. He disembarked at Forty-third Street and 
strolled to the Biltmore bar. 

"Hi, Amory!" 

"What'll you have?" 

"Yohol Waiter!" 


The advent of prohibition with the "thirsty-first" 
put a sudden stop to the submerging of Amory 's sor- 
rows, and when he awoke one morning to find that the 
old bar-to-bar days were over, he had neither remorse 
for the past three weeks nor regret that their repetition 
was impossible. He had taken the most violent, if the 
weakest, method to shield himself from the stabs of 
memory, and while it was not a course he would have 
prescribed for others, he found in the end that it had 
done its business: he was over the first flush of pain. 

Don't misunderstand! Amory had loved Rosalind 
as he would never love another living person. She had 
taken the first flush of his youth and brought from his 
unplumbed depths tenderness that had surprised him, 


gentleness and unselfishness that he had never given to 
another creature. He had later love-affairs, but of a 
different sort: in those he went back to that, perhaps, 
more typical frame of mind, in which the girl became 
the mirror of a mood in him. Rosalind had drawn out 
what was more than passionate admiration; he had a 
deep, undying affection for Rosalind. 

But there had been, near the end, so much dramatic 
tragedy, culminating in the arabesque nightmare of his 
three weeks' spree, that he was emotionally worn out. 
The people and surroundings that he remembered as 
being cool or delicately artificial, seemed to promise him 
a refuge. He wrote a cynical story which featured his 
father's funeral and despatched it to a magazine, re- 
ceiving in return a check for sixty dollars and a request 
for more of the same tone. This tickled his vanity, but 
inspired him to no further effort. 

He read enormously. He was puzzled and depressed 
by "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man"; in- 
tensely interested by "Joan and Peter" and "The Un- 
dying Fire," and rather surprised by his discovery 
through a critic named Mencken of several excellent 
American novels: "Vandover and the Brute," "The 
Damnation of Theron Ware," and "Jennie Gerhardt." 
Mackenzie, Chesterton, Galsworthy, Bennet, had sunk 
in his appreciation from sagacious, life-saturated geniuses 
to merely diverting contemporaries. Shaw's aloof 
clarity and brilliant consistency and the gloriously in- 
toxicated efforts of H. G. Wells to fit the key of romantic 
symmetry into the elusive lock of truth, alone won his 
rapt attention. 

He wanted to see Monsignor Darcy, to whom he had 
written when he landed, but he had not heard from 
him; besides he knew that a visit to Monsignor would 
entail the story of Rosalind, and the thought of repeat- 
ing it turned him cold with horror. 


In his search for cool people he remembered Mrs. 
Lawrence, a very intelligent, very dignified lady, a 
convert to the church, and a great devotee of Mon- 

He called her on the 'phone one day. Yes, she re- 
membered him perfectly; no, Monsignor wasn't in town, 
was in Boston she thought; he'd promised to come to 
dinner when he returned. Couldn't Amory take luncheon 
with her? 

"I thought I'd better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence," he 
said rather ambiguously when he arrived. 

""Monsignor was here just last week," said Mrs. 
Lawrence regretfully. "He was very anxious to see 
you, but he'd left your address at home." 

"Did he think I'd plunged into Bolshevism?" asked 
Amory, interested. 

"Oh, he's having a frightful time." 


"About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dig- 


"He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived 
and he was greatly distressed because the receiving 
committee, when they rode in an automobile, would put 
their arms around the President." 

"I don't blame him." 

"Well, what impressed you more than anything while 
you were hi the army? You look a great deal older." 

"That's from another, more disastrous battle," he 
answered, smiling in spite of himself. "But the army- 
let me see well, I discovered that physical courage de- 
pends to a great extent on the physical shape a man is 
in. I found that I was as brave as the next man it used 
to worry me before." 

"What else?" 

"Well, the idea that men can stand anything if they 


get used to it, and the fact that I got a high mark in the 
psychological examination." 

Mrs. Lawrence laughed. Amory was finding it a 
great relief to be in this cool house on Riverside Drive, 
away from more condensed New York and the sense of 
people expelling great quantities of breath into a little 
space. Mrs. Lawrence reminded him vaguely of Bea- 
trice, not in temperament, but in her perfect grace and 
dignity. The house, its furnishings, the manner in 
which dinner was served, were in immense contrast to 
what he had met in the great places on Long Island, 
where the servants were so obtrusive that they had 
positively to be bumped out of the way, or even in the 
houses of more conservative "Union Club" families. 
He wondered if this air of symmetrical restraint, this 
grace, which he felt was continental, was distilled through 
Mrs. Lawrence's New England ancestry or acquired in 
long residence in Italy and Spain. 

Two glasses of sauterne at luncheon loosened his 
tongue, and he talked, with what he felt was something 
of his old charm, of religion and literature and the 
menacing phenomena of the social order. Mrs. Lawrence 
was ostensibly pleased with him, and her interest was 
especially in his mind; he wanted people to like his 
mind again after a while it might be such a nice place 
in which to live. 

"Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you're his re- 
incarnation, that your faith will eventually clarify." 

"Perhaps," he assented. "I'm rather pagan at pres- 
ent. It's just that religion doesn't seem to have the 
slightest bearing on life at my age." 

When he left her house he walked down Riverside 
Drive with a feeling of satisfaction. It was amusing 
to discuss again such subjects as this young poet, 
Stephen Vincent Bene"t, or the Irish Republic. Between 
the rancid accusations of Edward Carson and Justice 


Cohalan he had completely tired of the Irish question; 
yet there had been a time when his own Celtic traits 
were pillars of his personal philosophy. 

There seemed suddenly to be much left in life, if only 
this revival of old interests did not mean that he was 
backing away from it again backing away from life 


"I'm tres old and tres bored, Tom," said Amory one 
day, stretching himself at ease in the comfortable win- 
dow-seat. He always felt most natural in a recumbent 

"You used to be entertaining before you started to 
write," he continued. "Now you save any idea that 
you think would do to print." 

Existence had settled back to an ambitionless normal- 
ity. They had decided that with economy they could 
still afford the apartment, which Tom, with the domes- 
ticity of an elderly cat, had grown fond of. The old 
English hunting prints on the wall were Tom's, and the 
large tapestry by courtesy, a relic of decadent days in 
college, and the great profusion of orphaned candle- 
sticks and the carved Louis XV chair in which no one 
could sit more than a minute without acute spinal dis- 
orders Tom claimed that this was because one was 
sitting in the lap of Montespan's wraith at any rate, 
it was Tom's furniture that decided them to stay. 

They went out very little: to an occasional play, or to 
dinner at the Ritz or the Princeton Club. With pro- 
hibition the great rendevouz had received their death 
wounds; no longer could one wander to the Biltmore 
bar at twelve or five and find congenial spirits, and both 
Torn and Amory had outgrown the passion for dancing 
with mid-Western or New Jersey debbies at the Club- 
de-Vingt (surnamed the "Club de Gink") or the Plaza, 


Rose Room besides even that required several cock- 
tails "to come down to the intellectual level of the 
women present," as Amory had once put it to a horrified 

Amory had lately received several alarming letters 
from Mr. Barton the Lake Geneva house was too large 
to be easily rented; the best rent obtainable at present 
would serve this year to little more than pay for the taxes 
and necessary improvements; in fact, the lawyer sug- 
gested that the whole property was simply a white ele- 
phant on Amory's hands. Nevertheless, even though it 
might not yield a cent for the next three years, Amory 
decided with a vague sentimentality that for the present, 
at any rate, he would not sell the house. 

This particular day on which he announced his ennui 
to Tom had been quite typical. He had risen at noon, 
lunched with Mrs. Lawrence, and then ridden abstract- 
edly homeward atop one of his beloved buses. 

"Why shouldn't you be bored," yawned Tom. "Isn't 
that the conventional frame of mind for the young man 
of your age and condition?" 

"Yes," said Amory speculatively, "but I'm more 
than bored; I am restless." - 

"Love and war did for you." 

"Well," Amory considered, "I'm not sure that the 
war itself had any great effect on either you or me 
but it certainly ruined the old backgrounds, sort of 
killed individualism out of our generation." 

Tom looked up in surprise. 

"Yes it did," insisted Amory. "I'm not sure it 
didn't kill it out of the whole world. Oh, Lord, what a 
pleasure it used to be to dream I might be a really great 
dictator or writer or religious or political leader and 
now even a Leonardo da Vinci or Lorenzo de Medici 
couldn't be a real old-fashioned bolt -in the world. Life 


is too huge and complex. The world is so overgrown 
that it can't lift its own fingers, and I was planning to 
be such an important finger " 

"I don't agree with you," Tom interrupted. "There 
never were men placed in such egotistic positions since 
oh, since the French Revolution." 

Amory disagreed violently. 

"You're mistaking this period when every nut is an 
individualist for a period of individualism. Wilson has 
only been powerful when he has represented; he's had to 
compromise over and over again. Just as soon as Trot- 
sky and Lenine take a definite, consistent stand they'll 
become merely two-minute figures like Kerensky. Even 
Foch hasn't half the significance of Stonewall Jackson. 
War used to be the most individualistic pursuit of man, 
and yet the popular heroes of the war had neither 
authority nor responsibility: Guynemer and Sergeant 
York. How could a schoolboy make a hero of Pershing? 
A big man has no time really to do anything but just sit 
and be big." 

"Then you don't think there will be any more per- 
manent world heroes?" 

"Yes in history not in life. Carlyle would have 
difficulty getting material for a new chapter on 'The 
Hero as a Big Man.'" 

"Go on. I'm a good listener to-day." 

."People try so hard to believe in leaders now, piti- 
fully hard. But we no sooner get a popular reformer or 
politician or soldier or writer or philosopher a Roose- 
velt, a Tolstoi, a Wood, a Shaw, a Nietzsche, than 
the cross-currents of criticism wash him away. My 
Lord, no man can stand prominence these days. It's 
the surest path to obscurity. People get sick of hearing 
the same name over and over." 

"Then you blame it on the press?" 


"Absolutely. Look at you; you're on The New De- 
mocracy, considered the most brilliant weekly in the 
country, read by the men who do things and all that. 
What's your business ? Why, to be as clever, as interest- 
ing, and as brilliantly cynical as possible about every 
man, doctrine, book, or policy that is assigned you to deal 
with. The more strong lights, the more spiritual scandal 
you can throw on the matter, the more money they pay 
you, the more the people buy the issue. You, Tom 
d'Invilliers, a blighted Shelley, changing, shifting, clever, 
unscrupulous, represent the critical consciousness of the 
race Oh, don't protest, I know the stuff. I used 
to write book reviews in college; I considered it rare 
sport to refer to the latest honest, conscientious effort 
to propound a theory or a remedy as a 'welcome ad- 
dition to our light summer reading.' Come on now, ad- 
mit it." 

Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly. 

"We want to believe. Young students try to believe 
in older authors, constituents try to believe in their 
Congressmen, countries try to believe in their states- 
men, but they can't. Too many voices, too much scat- 
tered, illogical, ill-considered criticism. It's worse in 
the case of newspapers. Any rich, unprogressive old 
party with that particularly grasping, acquisitive form 
of mentality known as financial genius can own a 
paper that is the intellectual meat and drink of thou- 
sands of tired, hurried men, men too involved in the 
business of modern living to swallow anything but 
predigested food. For two cents the voter buys his 
politics, prejudices, and philosophy. A year later there 
is a new political ring or a change in the paper's owner- 
ship, consequence: more confusion, more contradiction, 
a rudden inrush of new ideas, their tempering, their dis- 
tillation, the reaction against them " 


He paused only to get his breath. 

"And that is why I have sworn not to put pen to 
paper until my ideas either clarify or depart entirely; 
I have quite enough sins on my soul without putting 
dangerous, shallow epigrams into people's heads; I 
might cause a poor, inoffensive capitalist to have a vul- 
gar liaison with a bomb, or get some innocent little 
Bolshevik tangled up with a machine-gun bullet " 

Tom was growing restless under this lampooning of 
his connection with The New Democracy. 

"What's all this got to do with your being bored?" 

Amory considered that it had much to do with it. 

"How 5 !! I fit in?" he demanded. "What am I for? 
To propagate the race? According to the American 
novels we are led to believe that the 'healthy American 
boy' from nineteen to twenty-five is an entirely sexless 
animal. As a matter of fact, the healthier he is the less 
that's true. The only alternative to letting it get you 
is some violent interest. Well, the war is over; I believe 
too much in the responsibilities of authorship to write 
just now; and business, well, business speaks for itself. 
It has no connection with anything in the world that 
I've ever been interested in, except a slim, utilitarian 
connection with economics. What I'd see of it, lost in a 
clerkship, for the next and best ten years of my life would 
have the intellectual content of an industrial movie." 

"Try fiction," suggested Tom. 

"Trouble is I get distracted when I start to write 
stories get afraid I'm doing it instead of living get 
thinking maybe life is waiting for me in the Japanese 
gardens at the Ritz or at Atlantic City or on the lower 
East Side. 

"Anyway," he continued, "I haven't the vital urge. 
I wanted to be a regular human being but the girl 
couldn't see it that way." 


"You'll find another." 

"God! Banish the thought. Why don't you tell me 
that 'if the girl had been worth having she'd have 
waited for you'? No, sir, the girl really worth having 
won't wait for anybody. If I thought there'd be an- 
other I'd lose my remaining faith in human nature. 
Maybe I'll play but Rosalind was the only girl in the 
wide world that could have held me." 

"Well," yawned Tom, "I've played confidant a good 
hour by the clock. Still, I'm glad to see you're begin- 
ning to have violent views again on something." 

"I am," agreed Amory reluctantly. "Yet when I see 
a happy family it makes me sick at my stomach 

"Happy families try to make people feel that way," 
said Tom cynically. 


There were days when Amory listened. These were 
when Tom, wreathed in smoke, indulged in the slaughter 
of American literature. Words failed him. 

"Fifty thousand dollars a year," he would cry. "My 
God! Look at them, look at them Edna Ferber, 
Gouverneur Morris, Fanny Hurst, Mary Roberts Rine- 
hart not producing among 'em one story or novel that 
will last ten years. This man Cobb I don't think he's 
either clever or amusing and what's more, I don't think 
very many people do, except the editors. He's just 
groggy with advertising. And oh Harold Bell Wright 
oh Zone Grey " 

"They try." 

"No, they don't even try. Some of them can write, 
but they won't sit down and do one honest novel. 
Most of them can't write, I'll admit. I believe Rupert 
Hughes tries to give a real, comprehensive picture of 


American fife, but his style and perspective are bar- 
barous. Ernest Poole and Dorothy Canfield try but 
they're hindered by their absolute lack of any sense of 
humor; but at least they crowd their work instead of 
spreading it thin. Every author ought to write every 
book as if he were going to be beheaded the day he 
finished it." 

"Is that double entente?" 

"Don't slow me up ! Now there's a few of 'em that 
seem to have some cultural background, some intelli- 
gence and a good deal of literary felicity but they just 
simply won't write honestly; they'd all claim there was 
no public for good stuff. Then why the devil is it that 
Wells, Conrad, Galsworthy, Shaw, Bennett, and the rest 
depend on America for over half their sales?" 

"How does little Tommy like the poets?" 

Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they 
swung loosely beside the chair and emitted faint grunts. 

"I'm writing a satire on 'em now, calling it 'Boston 
Bards and Hearst Reviewers.' ' 

"Let's hear it," said Amory eagerly. 

"I've only got the last few lines done." 

"That's very modern. Let's hear 'em, if they're 

Tom produced a folded paper from his pocket and 
read aloud, pausing at intervals so that Amory could 
see that it was free verse: 


Walter Arensberg, 
Alfred Kreymborg, 
Carl Sandburg, 
Louis Untermeyer, 
Eunice Tietjens, 
Clara Shanafelt, 
James Oppenheim, 
Maxwell Bodenheim, 


Richard Glaenzer, 

Scharmel Iris, 

Conrad Aiken, 

I place your names here 

So that you may live 

If only as names, 

Sinuous, mauve-colored names, 

In the Juvenalia 

Of my collected editions." 

Amory roared. 

"You win the iron pansy. I'll buy you a meal on the 
arrogance of the last two lines." 

Amory did not entirely agree with Tom's sweeping 
damnation of American novelists and poets. He en- 
joyed both Vachel Lindsay and Booth Tarkington, and 
admired the conscientious, if slender, artistry of Edgar 
Lee Masters. 

"What I hate is this idiotic drivel about 'I am God 
I am man I ride the winds I look through the smoke 
I am the life sense.' ' 

"It's ghastly!" 

"And I wish American novelists would give up trying 
to make business romantically interesting. Nobody 
wants to read about it, unless it's crooked business. If 
it was an entertaining subject they'd buy the life of 
James J. Hill and not one of these long office tragedies 
that harp along on the significance of smoke 

"And gloom," said Tom. "That's another favorite, 
though I'll admit the Russians have the monopoly. 
Our specialty is stories about little girls who break their 
spines and get adopted by grouchy old men because 
they smile so much. You'd think we were a race of 
cheerful cripples and that the common end of the 
Russian peasant was suicide " 

"Six o'clock," said Amory, glancing at his wrist- 


watch. "I'll buy you a grea' big dinner on the strength 
of the Juvenalia of your collected editions." 


July sweltered out with a last hot week, and Amory 
in another surge of unrest realized that it was just five 
months since he and Rosalind had met. Yet it was 
already hard for him to visualize the heart-whole boy 
who had stepped off the transport, passionately desiring 
the adventure of life. One night while the heat, over- 
powering and enervating, poured into the windows of 
his room he struggled for several hours in a vague ef- 
fort to immortalize the poignancy of that time. 

The February streets, wind-washed by night, blow full of 
strange half-intermittent damps, bearing on wasted walks 
in shining sight wet snow plashed into gleams under the 
lamps, like golden oil from some divine machine, in an 
hour of thaw and stars. 

Strange damps -full of the eyes of many men, crowded 
with life borne in upon a lull. . . . Oh, I was young, for 
I could turn again to you, most finite and most beautiful, 
and taste the stuff of half-remembered dreams, sweet and 
new on your mouth. 

. . . There was a tanging in the midnight air silence 
was dead and sound not yet awoken Life cracked like 
ice!' one brilliant note and there, radiant and pale, you 
stood . . . and spring had broken. (The icicles were 
short upon the roofs and the changeling city swooned.) 

Our thoughts were frosty mist along the eaves; our two 
ghosts kissed, high on the long, mazed wires eerie half- 
laughter echoes here and leaves only a fatuous sigh for young 
desires; regret has followed after things she loved, leaving 
the great husk. 



In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, 
who had evidently just stumbled on his address: 


Your last letter "was quite enough to make me worry about 
you. It was not a bit like yourself. Reading between the lines 
I should imagine that your engagement to this girl is making 
you rather unhappy, and I see you have lost all the feeling of 
romance that you had before the war. You make a great mis- 
take if you think you can be romantic without religion. Some- 
times I think that with both of us the secret of success, when 
we find it, is the mystical element in us: something flows into 
us that enlarges our personalities, and when it ebbs out our 
personalities shrink; I should call your last two letters rather 
shrivelled. Beware of losing yourself in the personality of an- 
other being, man or woman. 

His Eminence Cardinal O'Neill and the Bishop of Boston 
are staying with me at present, so it is hard for me to get a 
moment to write, but I wish you would come up here later if 
only for a week-end. I go to Washington this week. 

What I shall do in the future is hanging in the balance. 
Absolutely between ourselves I should not be surprised to see 
the red hat of a cardinal descend upon my unworthy head within 
the next eight months. In any event, I should like to have a 
house in New York or Washington where you could drop in for 

Amory, I'm very glad we're both alive; this war could easily 
have been the end of a brilliant family. But in regard to matri- 
mony, you are now at the most dangerous period of your life. 
You might marry in haste and repent at leisure, but I think you 
won't. From what you write me about the present calamitous 
state of your finances, what you want is naturally impossible. 
However, if I judge you by the means I usually choose, I should 
say that there will be something of an emotional crisis within 
the next year. 

Do write me. I feel annOyingly out of date on you. 
With greatest affection, 



Within a week after the receipt of this letter their 
little household fell precipitously to pieces. The im- 
mediate cause was the serious and probably chronic 
illness of Tom's mother. So they stored the furniture, 
gave instructions to sublet and shook hands gloomily 
in the Pennsylvania Station. Amory and Tom seemed 
always to be saying good-by. 

Feeling very much alone, Amory yielded to an im- 
pulse and set off southward, intending to join Monsignor 
in Washington. They missed connections by two hours, 
and, deciding to spend a few days with an ancient, re- 
membered uncle, Amory journeyed up through the luxu- 
riant fields of Maryland into Ramilly County. But in- 
stead of two days his stay lasted from mid- August nearly 
through September, for in Maryland he met Eleanor. 


FOR years afterward when Amory thought of Eleanor 
he seemed still to hear the wind sobbing around him 
and sending little chills into the places beside his heart. 
The night when they rode up the slope and watched the 
cold moon float through the clouds, he lost a further 
part of him that nothing could restore; and when he 
lost it he lost also the power of regretting it. Eleanor 
was, say, the last time that evil crept close to Amory 
under the mask of beauty, the last weird mystery 
that held him with wild fascination and pounded his 
soul to flakes. 

With her his imagination ran riot and that is why they 
rode to the highest hill and watched an evil moon ride 
high, for they knew then that they could ^see the devil 
in each other. But Eleanor did Amory dream her? 
Afterward their ghosts played, yet both of them hoped 
from their souls never to meet. Was it the infinite 
sadness of her eyes that drew him or the mirror of him- 
self that he found in the gorgeous clarity of her mind ? 
She will have no other adventure like Amory, and if she 
reads this she will say: 

"And Amory will have no other adventure like me." 

Nor will she sigh, any more than he would sigh. 

Eleanor tried to put it on paper once: 

"The fading things we only know 
We'll have forgotten . . . 

Put away . . . 

Desires that melted with the snow, 


And dreams begotten 

This to-day: 
The sudden dawns we laughed to greet, 

That all could see, that none could share, 
Will be but dawns . . . and if we meet 

We shall not care. 

Dear . . . not one tear will rise for this . . . 

A little while hence 

No regret 
Wfll stir for a remembered kiss 

Not even silence, 

When we've met, 
Wifl give old ghosts a waste to roam, 

Or stir the surface of the sea . . . 
If gray shapes drift beneath the foam 

We shall not see." 

They quarrelled dangerously because Amory main- 
tained that sea and see couldn't possibly be used as a 
rhyme. And then Eleanor had part of another verse 
that she couldn't find a beginning for: 

"... But wisdom passes . . . still the years 
Will feed us wisdom. . . . Age will go 
Back to the old For all our tears 
We shall not know." 

Eleanor hated Maryland passionately. She belonged 
to the oldest of the old families of Ramilly County and 
lived in a big, gloomy house with her grandfather. She 
had been born and brought up hi France. ... I see I 
am starting wrong. Let me begin again. 

Amory was bored, as he usually was in the country. 
He used to go for far walks by himself and wander 
along reciting "Ulalume" to the corn-fields, and con- 
gratulating Poe for drinking himself to death in that at- 
mosphere of smiling complacency. One afternoon he had 
strolled for several miles along a road that was new to 


him, and then through a wood on bad advice from a 
colored woman . . . losing himself entirely. A passing 
storm decided to break out, and to his great impatience 
the sky grew black as pitch and the rain began to splatter 
down through the trees, become suddenly furtive and 
ghostly. Thunder rolled with menacing crashes up the 
valley and scattered through the woods in intermittent 
batteries. He stumbled blindly on, hunting for a way 
out, and finally, through webs of twisted branches, 
caught sight of a rift in the trees where the unbroken 
lightning showed open country. He rushed to the edge 
of the woods and then hesitated whether or not to cross 
the fields and try to reach the shelter of the little house 
marked by a light far down the valley. It was only 
half past five, but he could see scarcely ten steps be- 
fore him, except when the lightning made everything 
vivid and grotesque for great sweeps around. 

Suddenly a strange sound fell on his ears. It was a 
song, in a low, husky voice, a girl's voice, and whoever 
was singing was very close to him. A year before he 
might have laughed, or trembled; but in his restless 
mood he only stood and listened while the words sank 
into his consciousness: 

"Les sanglots longs 
Des violons 

De I'automne 
Blessent mon ceur 
D'une langueur 


The lightning split the sky, but the song went on 
without a quaver. The girl was evidently in the field 
and the voice seemed to come vaguely from a haystack 
about twenty feet in front of him. 

Then it ceased; ceased and began again in a weird 


chant that soared and hung and fell and blended with 
the rain: 

El U&ne qwnd 
Sonne Vheure 
Je me souviens 
Des jours anciens 
Etjepleure. ..." 

"Who the devil is there in Ramilly County," mut- 
tered Amory aloud, "who would deliver Verlaine in an 
extemporaneous tune to a soaking haystack?" 

"Somebody's there!" cried the voice unalarmed. 
"Who are you? Manfred, St. Christopher, or Queen 

"I'm Don Juan!" Amory shouted on impulse, raising 
his voice above the noise of the rain and the wind. 

A delighted shriek came from the haystack. 

"I know who you are you're the blond boy that 
likes 'Ulalume' I recognize your voice." 

"How do I get up ? " he cried from the foot of the hay- 
stack, whither he had arrived, dripping wet A head 
appeared over the edge it was so dark that Amory 
could just make out a patch of damp hair and two eyes 
that gleamed like a cat's. 

"Run back!" came the voice, "and jump and I'll 
catch your hand no, not there on the other side." 

He followed directions and as he sprawled up the 
side, knee-deep in hay, a small, white hand reached 
out, gripped his, and helped him onto the top. 

"Here you are, Juan," cried she of the damp hair. 
"Do you mind if I drop the Don?" 

"You've got a thumb like mine!" he exclaimed. 

"And you're holding my hand, which is dangerous 
without seeing my face." He dropped it quickly. 

As if in answer to his prayers came a flash of light- 


ning and he looked eagerly at her who stood beside him 
on the soggy haystack, ten feet above the ground. But 
she had covered her face and he saw nothing but a 
slender figure, dark, damp, bobbed hair, and the small 
white hands with the thumbs that bent back like his. 

"Sit down," she suggested politely, as the dark closed 
in on them. "If you'll sit opposite me in this hollow 
you can have half of the raincoat, which I was using as 
a water-proof tent until you so rudely interrupted me." 

"I was asked," Amory said joyfully; "you asked 
me you know you did." 

"Don Juan always manages that," she said, laughing, 
"but I shan't call you that any more, because you've 
got reddish hair. Instead you can recite 'Ulalume' and 
I'll be Psyche, your soul." 

Amory flushed, happily invisible under the curtain of 
wind and rain. They were sitting opposite each other 
in a slight hollow in the hay with the raincoat spread 
over most of them, and the rain doing for the rest. 
Amory was trying desperately to see Psyche, but the 
lightning refused to flash again, and he waited im- 
patiently. Good Lord ! supposing she wasn't beautiful 
supposing she was forty and pedantic heavens! 
Suppose, only suppose, she was mad. But he knew the 
last was unworthy. Here had Providence sent a girl 
to amuse him just as it sent Benvenuto Cellini men to 
murder, and he was wondering if she was mad, just be- 
cause she exactly filled his mood. 

"I'm not," she said. 

"Not what?" 

"Not mad. I didn't think you were mad when I 
first saw you, so it isn't fair that you should think so 
of me." 

"How on earth " 

As long as they knew each other Eleanor and Amory 


could be "on a subject" and stop talking with the defin- 
ite thought of it in their heads, yet ten minutes later 
speak aloud and find that their minds had followed the 
same channels and led them each to a parallel idea, an 
idea that others would have found absolutely uncon- 
nected with the first. 

"Tell me," he demanded, leaning forward eagerly, 
"how do you know about ' Ulalume* how did you know 
the color of my hair? What's your name? What were 
you doing here? Tell me all at once!" 

Suddenly the lightning flashed in with a leap of over- 
reaching light and he saw Eleanor, and looked for the 
first time into those eyes of hers. Oh, she was mag- 
nificent pale skin, the color of marble in starlight, 
slender brows, and eyes that glittered green as emer- 
alds in the blinding 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 weak- 
ness and a delight. He sank back with a gasp against 
the wall of hay. 

"Now you've seen me," she said calmly, "and I sup- 
pose 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 of- 
fered 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, deli- 
cate aquiline; temperament, uncanny- " 

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

"Oh, you're one of those men," she answered haught- 
ily, "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 I' says I, 
' there's a man for whom many of us might sigh/ and I 
continued in my best Irish " 

"All right," Amory interrupted. "Now go back to 

' ' Well, I will. I'm one of those people who go through 
the world giving other people thrills, but getting few 
myself except those I read into men on such nights as 
these. I have the social courage to go on the stage, 
but not the energy; I haven't the patience to write 


books; and I never met a man I'd marry. However, 
I'm only eighteen." 

The storm was dying down softly and only the wind 
kept up its ghostly surge and made the stack lean and 
gravely settle from side to side. Amory was in a trance. 
He felt that every moment was precious. He had never 
met a girl like this before she would never seem quite 
the same again. He didn't at all feel like a character 
in a play, the appropriate feeling in an unconven- 
tional situation instead, he had a sense of coming 

"I have just made a great decision," said Eleanor 
after another pause, "and that is why I'm here, to an- 
swer another of your questions. I have just decided 
that I don't believe in immortality." 

"Really! how banal!" 

"Frightfully so," she answered, "but depressing with 
a stale, sickly depression, nevertheless. I came out here 
to get wet like a wet hen; wet hens always have great 
clarity of mind," she concluded. 

"Go on," Amory said politely. 

"Well I'm not afraid of the dark, so I put on my 
slkker and rubber boots and came out. You see I was 
always afraid, before, to say I didn't believe in God 
because the lightning might strike me but here I am 
and it hasn't, of course, but the main point is that this 
time I wasn't any more afraid of it than I had been when 
I was a Christian Scientist, like I was last year. So 
now I know I'm a materialist and I was fraternizing 
with the hay when you came out and stood by the^woods, 
'scared to death." 

"Why, you little wretch " cried Amory indignantly. 
"Scared of what?" 

"Yourself!" she shouted, and he jumped. She clapped 
her hands and laughed. "See see! Conscience kill 


it like me ! Eleanor Savage, materiologist no jumping, 
no starting, come early ' 

"But I have to have a soul," he objected. "I can't 
be rational and I won't be molecular." 

She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leav- 
ing his own and whispered with a sort of romantic 

"I thought so, Juan, I feared so you're sentimental. 
You're not like me. I'm a romantic little materialist." 

"I'm not sentimental I'm as romantic as you are. 
The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person 
thinks things will last the romantic person has a 
desperate confidence that they won't." (This was an 
ancient distinction of Amory's.) 

"Epigrams. I'm going home," she said sadly. "Let's 
get off the haystack and walk to the cross-roads." 

They slowly descended from their perch. She would 
not let him help her down and motioning him away 
arrived in a graceful lump in the soft mud where she 
sat for an instant, laughing at herself. Then she jumped 
to her feet and slipped her hand into his, and they tip- 
toed across the fields, jumping and swinging from dry 
spot to dry spot. A transcendent delight seemed to, 
sparkle in every pool of water, for the moon had risen 
and the storm had scurried away into western Mary- 
land. When Eleanor's arm touched his he felt his 
hands grow cold with deadly fear lest he should lose the 
shadow brush with which his imagination was painting 
wonders of her. He watched her from the corners of 
his eyes as ever he did when he walked with her she 
was a feast and a folly and he wished it had been his des- 
tiny to sit forever on a haystack and see life through her 
green eyes. His paganism soared that night and when 
she faded out like a gray ghost down the road, a deep 
singing came out of the fields and filled his way home- 


ward. All night the summer moths flitted in and out of 
Amory's window; all night large looming sounds swayed 
in mystic revery through the silver grain and he lay 
awake in the clear darkness. 


Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it 

"I never fall in love in August or September," he 

"When then?" 

"Christmas or Easter. I'm a liturgist" 

"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 Thanks- 

"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 

"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. 


"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 re- 
flexes 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 
everything fine and finished and rich and imaginative; 
they must bend tiny golden tentacles from his imagina- 
tion to hers, that would take the place of the great, 
deep love that was never so near, yet never so much of a 

One poem they read over and over; Swinburne's 
"Triumph of Time," and four lines of it rang in his 
memory afterward on warm nights when he saw the 
fireflies among dusky tree trunks and heard the low 
drone of many frogs. Then Eleanor seemed to come 
out of the night and stand by him, and he heard her 


throaty voice, with its tone of a fleecy-headed drum, 

"Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, 

To think of things that are well outworn; 
Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, 

The dream foregone and the deed foreborne ? " 

They were formally introduced two days later, and 
his aunt told him her history. The Ramillys were two : 
old Mr. Ramilly and his granddaughter, Eleanor. She 
had lived in France with a restless mother whom Amory 
imagined to have been very like his own, on whose 
death she had come to America, to live in Maryland. 
She had gone to Baltimore first to stay with a bachelor 
uncle, and there she insisted on being a debutante at 
the age of seventeen. She had a wild winter and ar- 
rived in the country in March, having quarrelled fran- 
tically with all her Baltimore relatives, and shocked 
them into fiery protest. A rather fast crowd had come 
out, who drank cocktails in limousines and were pro- 
miscuously condescending and patronizing toward older 
people, and Eleanor with an esprit that hinted strongly 
of the boulevards, led many innocents still redolent of 
St. Timothy's and Farmington, into paths of Bohemian 
naughtiness. When the story came to her uncle, a 
forgetful cavalier of a more hypocritical era, there was 
a scene, from which Eleanor emerged, subdued but re- 
bellious and indignant, to seek haven with her grand- 
father who hovered in the country on the near side of 
senility. That's as far as her story went; she told him 
the rest herself, but that was later. 

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 

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 pa- 
ternity 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?" 


"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 fairy-land with Amory and Eleanor, dim phan- 
tasmal shapes, expressing eternal beauty in curious 
elfin love moods. Then they turned out of the moon- 
light into the trellised darkness of a vine-hung pagoda, 
where there were scents so plaintive as to be nearly 

"Light a match," she whispered. "I want to see 

Scratch ! Flare ! 

The night and the scarred trees were like scenery in a 
play, and to be there with Eleanor, shadowy and unreal, 
seemed somehow oddly familiar. Amory thought how 
it was only the past that ever seemed strange and unbe- 
lievable. The match went out. 

"It's black as pitch." 

"We're just voices now," murmured Eleanor, "little 
lonesome voices. Light another." 

"That was my last match." 

Suddenly he caught her in his arms. 

"You are mine you know you're mine!" he cried 
wildly . . . the moonlight twisted in through the vines 
and listened . . . the fireflies hung upon their whispers 
as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes. 


"No wind is stirring in the grass; not one wind stirs 
. . . the water in the hidden pools, as glass, fronts the 
full moon and so inters the golden token in its icy mass," 
chanted Eleanor to the trees that skeletoned the body 
of the night. "Isn't it ghostly here? If you can hold 
your horse's feet up, let's cut through the woods and 
find the hidden pools." 

"It's after one, and you'll get the devil," he objected, 


"and I don't know enough about horses to put one away 
in the pitch dark." 

"Shut up, you old fool," she whispered irrelevantly, 
and, leaning over, she patted him lazily with her riding- 
crop. "You can leave your old plug in our stable and 
I'll send him over to-morrow." 

"But my uncle has got to drive me to the station 
with this old plug at seven o'clock." 

"Don't be a spoil-sport remember, you have a 
tendency toward wavering that prevents you from being 
the entire light of my life." 

Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning 
toward her, grasped her hand. 

" Say I am quick, or I'll pull you over and make you 
ride behind me." 

She looked up and smiled and shook her head ex- 

"Oh, do ! or rather, don't ! Why are all the exciting 
things so uncomfortable, like fighting and exploring and 
ski-ing in Canada ? By 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-oopt" 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 bis 
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 de- 
sired, to have been able to write with such divine de- 
spair, 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 
life that she could be rational (she meant pose with 
comfort). So they had turned into the woods and rode 
for half an hour with scarcely a word, except when she 
whispered "Damn!" at a bothersome branch whis- 
pered it as no other girl was ever able to whisper it. 
Then they started up Harper's Hill, walking their tired 

"Good Lord! It's quiet here!" whispered Eleanor; 
"much more lonesome than the woods." 

"I hate woods," Amory said, shuddering. "Any kind 
of foliage or underbrush at night. Out here it's so broad 
and easy on the spirit." 


"The long slope of a long hill." 

"And the cold moon rolling moonlight down it." 

"And thee and me, last and most important." 

It was quiet that night the straight road they fol- 
lowed up to the edge of the cliff knew few footsteps at 
any time. Only an occasional negro cabin, silver-gray 
in the rock-ribbed moonlight, broke the long line of bare 
ground; behind lay the black edge of the woods like a 
dark frosting on white cake, and ahead the sharp, high 
horizon. It was much colder so cold that it settled on 
them and drove all the warm nights from their minds. 

"The end of summer," said Eleanor softly. "Listen 
to the beat of our horses' hoofs ' tump-tump-tump-a- 
tump.' Have you ever been feverish and had all noises 
divide into 'tump-tump-tump 7 until you could swear 
eternity was divisible into so many tumps ? That's the 
way I feel old horses go tump-tump. ... I guess 
that's the only thing that separates horses and clocks 
from us. Human beings can't go ' tump-tiimp-tump ' 
without going crazy." 

The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape 
around her and shivered. 

"Are you very cold?" asked Amory. 

"No, I'm thinking about myself my black old in- 
side self, the real one, with the fundamental honesty 
that keeps me from being absolutely wicked by making 
me realize my own sins." 

They were riding up close by the cliff and Amory gazed 
over. Where the fall met the ground a hundred feet 
below, a black stream made a sharp line, broken by tiny 
glints in the swift water. 

"Rotten, rotten old world," broke out Eleanor sud- 
denly, "and the wretchedest thing of all is me oh, 
why am I a girl ? Why am I not a stupid ? Look at 
you; you're stupider than I am, not much, but some, 


and you can lope about and get bored and then lope 
somewhere else, and you can play around with girls 
without being involved in meshes of sentiment, and you 
can do anything and be justified and here am I with 
the brains to do everything, yet tied to the sinking ship 
of future matrimony. If I were born a hundred years 
from now, well and good, but now what's in store for 
me I have to marry, that goes without saying. Who ? 
I'm too bright for most men, and yet I have to descend 
to their level and let them patronize my intellect in or- 
der to get their attention. Every year that I don't 
marry I've got less chance for a first-class man. At 
the best I can have my choice from one or two cities and, 
of course, I have to marry into a dinner-coat. 

"Listen," she leaned close again, "I like clever men 
and good-looking men, and, of course, no one cares 
more for personality than I do. Oh, just one person in 
fifty has any glimmer of what sex is. I'm hipped on 
Freud and all that, but it's rotten that every bit of 
real love in the world is ninety-nine per cent passion and 
one little soupjon of jealousy. " She finished as suddenly 
as she began. 

"Of course, you're right," Amory agreed. "It's a 
rather unpleasant overpowering force that's part of the 
machinery under everything. It's like an actor that 
lets you see his mechanics ! Wait a minute till I think 
this out . .. ." 

He paused and tried to get a metaphor. They had 
turned the cliff and were riding along the road about 
fifty feet to the left. 

"You see every one's got to have some cloak to throw 
around it. The mediocre intellects, Plato's second class, 
use the remnants of romantic chivalry diluted with 
Victorian sentiment and we who consider ourselves 
the intellectuals cover it up by pretending that it's 


another side of us, has nothing to do with our shining 
brains; we pretend that the fact that we realize it is 
really absolving us from being a prey to it. But the 
truth is that sex is right in the middle of our purest 
abstractions, so close that it obscures vision. ... I 
can kiss you now and will. . . ."- He leaned toward 
her in his saddle, but she drew away. 

"I can't I can't kiss you now I'm more sensi- 

"You're more stupid then," he declared rather im- 
patiently. "Intellect is no protection from sex any more 
than convention is . . . " 

"What is?" she fired up. "The Catholic Church or the 
maxims of Confucius?" 

Amory looked up, rather taken aback. 

"That's your panacea, isn't it?" she cried. "Oh, 
you're just an old hypocrite, too. Thousands of scowling 
priests keeping the degenerate Italians and illiterate 
Irish repentant with gabble-gabble about the sixth and 
ninth commandments. It's just all cloaks, sentiment and 
spiritual rouge and panaceas. I'll tell you there is no 
God, not even a definite abstract goodness; so it's all 
got to be worked out for the individual by the individual 
here in high white foreheads like mine, and you're too 
much the prig to admit it." She let go her reins and 
shook her little fists at the stars. 

"If there's a God let him strike me strike me!" 
> "Talking about God again after the manner of athe- 
ists," Amory said sharply. His materialism, always a 
thin cloak, was torn to shreds by Eleanor's blasphemy. 
. . . She knew it and it angered him that she knew it. 

"And like most inteDectuals who don't find faith con- 
venient," he continued coldly, "like Napoleon and Oscar 
Wilde and the rest of your type, you'll yell loudly for a 
priest on your death-bed." 


Eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in 
beside her. 

"Will I?" she said in a queer voice that scared him. 
"Will I? Watch! I'm going over the cliff 7" And be- 
fore he could interfere she had turned and was riding 
breakneck for the end of the plateau. 

He wheeled and started after her, his body like ice, 
his nerves in a vast clangor. There was no chance of 
stopping her. The moon was under a cloud and her 
horse would step blindly over. Then some ten feet 
from 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 be- 
gan 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 on- 
to his saddle. So they started homeward; Amory walk- 
ing and she bent forward on the pommel, sobbing 

"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. 


"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 

Deep iii the time when summer lets down her hair? 
Shadows we loved and the patterns they covered the ground 

Tapestries, mystical, faint in the breathless air. 

That was the day . . . and the night for another story, 

Pale as a dream and shadowed with pencilled trees 
Ghosts of the stars came by who had sought for glory, 

Whispered to us of peace in the plaintive breeze, 
Whispered of old dead faiths that the day had shattered, 

Youth the penny that bought delight of the moon; 
That was the urge that we knew and the language that mat- 

That was the debt that we paid to the usurer June. 

Here, deepest of dreams, by the waters that bring not 
Anything back of the past that we need not know, 


What if the light is but sun and the little streams sing not, 
We are together, it seems ... I have loved you so ... 

What did the last night hold, with the summer over, 
Drawing us back to the home in the changing glade? 

What leered out of the dark in the ghostly clover? 

God! ... till you stirred in your sleep . . . and were wild 
afraid . . . 

Well ... we have passed ... we are chronicle now to the 

Curious metal from meteors that failed in the sky; 
Earth-born the tireless is stretched by the water, quite weary, 

Close to this ununderstandable changeling that's I ... 
Fear is an echo we traced to Security's daughter; 

Now we are faces and voices . . . and less, too soon, 
Whispering half-love over the lilt of the water . . . 

Youth the penny that bought delight of the moon." 


"Faint winds, and a song fading and leaves falling, 
Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter , . . 
And the rain and over the fields a voice calling . . . 

Our gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above, 
Slides on the sun and flutters there to waft her 
Sisters on. The shadow of a dove 
Falls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings; 
And down the valley through the crying trees 
The body of the darker storm flies; brings 
With its new air the breath of sunken seas 
And slender tenuous thunder . . . 

But I wait . . . 

Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain 
Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate, 
Happier winds that pile her hair; 


They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy air 
Upon me, winds that I know, and storm. 

There was a summer every rain was rare; 
There was a season every wind was warm. . . , 


And now you pass me in the mist . . . your hair 
Rain-blown about you, damp lips curved once more 
In that wild irony, that gay despair 
That made you old when we have met before; 
Wraith-like you drift on out before the rain, 
Across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers, 
With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again- 
Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours 
(Whispers will creep into the growing dark . . . 
Tumult will die over the trees) 

Now night 

Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse 
Of day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright, 
To cover with her hair the eerie green . . . 
Love for the dusk . . . Love for the glistening after; 
Quiet the trees to their last tops . . . serene . . . 

Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . ,. ." 



ATLANTIC CITY. Amory paced the board walk at 
day's end, lulled by the everlasting surge of changing 
waves, smelling the half-mournful odor of the salt 
breeze. The sea, he thought, had treasured its memories 
deeper than the faithless land. It seemed still to whisper 
of Norse galleys ploughing the water world under raven- 
figured flags, of the British dreadnoughts, gray bulwarks 
of civilization steaming up through the fog of one 
dark July into the North Sea. 

"Well Amory Elaine!" 

Amory looked down into the street, below. A low 
racing car had drawn to a stop and a familiar cheerful 
face protruded from the driver's seat. 

"Come on down, goopher!" cried Alec. 

Amory called a greeting and descending a flight of 
wooden steps approached the car. He and Alec had 
been meeting intermittently, but the barrier of Rosalind 
lay always between them. He was sorry for this; he 
hated to lose Alec. 

"Mr. Elaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and 
Mr. Tully." 

"How d'y do?" 

"Amory," said Alec exuberantly, "if you'll jump in 
we'll take you to some secluded nook and give you a wee 
jolt of Bourbon." 

Amory considered. 

"That's an idea." 

"Step in move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very 
handsomely at you." 



Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, 
vermilion-lipped blonde. 

"Hello, Doug Fairbanks," she said flippantly. "Walk- 
ing for exercise or hunting for company?" 

"I was counting the waves," replied Amory gravely. 
"I'm going in for statistics." 

"Don't kid me, Doug." 

When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec 
stopped the car among deep shadows. 

"What you doing down here these cold days, Amory? " 
he demanded, as he produced a quart of Bourbon from 
under the fur rug. 

Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no 
definite reason for coming to the coast. 

"Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore 
year?" he asked instead. 

"Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury 
Park " 

"Lord, Alec ! It's hard to think that Jesse and Dick 
and Kerry are all three dead." 

Alec shivered. 

"Don't talk about it. These dreary fall days depress 
me enough." 

Jill seemed to agree. 

"Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways," she com- , 
mented. "Tell him to drink deep it's good and scarce 
these days." 

"What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you 
are " 

"Why, New York, I suppose " 

"I mean to-night, because if you haven't got a room 
yet you'd better help me out." 

"Glad to." 

"You see, Tully and I have two rooms with bath be- 
tween at the Ranier, and he's got to go back to New 


York. I don't want to have to move. Question is, 
will you occupy one of the rooms?" 

Amory was willing, if he could get in right away. 

"You'll find the key in the office; the rooms are in 
my name." 

Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, 
Amory left the car and sauntered back along the board 
walk to the hotel. 

He was in an eddy again, a deep, lethargic gulf, with- 
out desire to work or write, love or dissipate. For the 
first time in his life he rather longed for death to roll 
over his generation, obliterating their petty fevers and 
struggles and exultations. His youth seemed never so 
vanished as now in the contrast between the utter 
loneliness of this visit and that riotous, joyful party of 
four years before. Things that had been the merest 
commonplaces of his life then, deep sleep, the sense of 
beauty around him, all desire, had flown away and the 
gaps they left were filled only with the great listlessness 
of his disillusion. 

"To hold a man a woman has to appeal to the worst 
in him." This sentence was the thesis of most of his 
bad nights, of which he felt this was to be one. His mind 
had already started to play variations on the subject. 
Tireless passion, fierce jealousy, longing to possess and 
crush these alone were left of all his love for Rosalind; 
these remained to him as payment for the loss of his 
youth bitter calomel under the thin sugar of love's ex- 

In his room he undressed and wrapping himself in 
blankets to keep out the chill October air drowsed in 
an armchair by the open window. 

He remembered a poem he had read months before: 

"Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, 
I waste my years sailing along the sea " 


Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present 
hope that waste implied. He felt that life had rejected 

"Rosalind ! Rosalind !" He poured the words softly 
into the half-darkness until she seemed to permeate the 
room; the wet salt breeze filled his hair with moisture, 
the rim of a moon seared the sky and made the curtains 
dim and ghostly. He fell asleep. 

When he awoke it was very late and quiet. The 
blanket had slipped partly off his shoulders and he 
touched his skin 'to find it damp and cold. 

Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten 
feet away. 

He became rigid. 

"Don't make a sound!" It was Alec's voice. li Jill- 
do you hear me?" 

"Yes " breathed very low, very frightened. They 
were in the bathroom. 

Then his ears caught a louder sound from somewhere 
along the corridor outside. It was a mumbling of men's 
voices and a repeated muffled rapping. Amory threw 
off the blankets and moved close to the bathroom 

"My God!" came the girl's voice again. "You'll 
have to let them in." 


Suddenly a steady, insistent knocking began at 
Amory's hall door and simultaneously out of the bath- 
room came Alec, followed by the vermilion-lipped girl. 
They were both clad in pajamas. 

"Amory!" an anxious whisper. 

"What's the trouble?" 

"It's house detectives. My God, Amory they're 
just looking for a test-case " 

"Well, better let them in." 


"You don't understand. They can get me under ths 
Mann Act." 

The girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, 
pathetic figure in the darkness. 

Amory tried to plan quickly. 

"You make a racket and let them in your room," he 
suggested anxiously, "and I'll get her out by this door." 

"They're here too, though. They'll watch this door." 

"Can't you give a wrong name?" 

"No chance. I registered under my own name; be- 
sides, they'd trail the auto license number." 

"Say you're married." 

"Jill says one of the house detectives knows her." 

The girl had stolen to the bed and tumbled upon it; 
lay there listening wretchedly to the knocking which 
had grown gradually to a pounding. Then came a man's 
voice, angry and imperative: 

"Open up or we'll break the door in!" 

In the silence when this voice ceased Amory realized 
that there were other things in the room besides people 
. . . over and around the figure crouched on the bed 
there hung an aura, gossamer as a moonbeam, tainted 
as stale, weak wine, yet a horror, diffusively brooding 
already over the three of them . . . and over by the 
window among the stirring curtains stood something 
else, featureless and indistinguishable, yet strangely 
familiar. . . . Simultaneously two great cases presented 
themselves side by side to Amory; all that took place in 
his mind, then, occupied in actual time less than ten 
seconds. \ 

The first fact that flashed radiantly on his compre- 
hension was the great impersonality of sacrifice he 
perceived that what we call love and hate, reward and 
punishment, had no more to do with it than the date 
of the month. He quickly recapitulated the story of a 


sacrifice he had heard of in college: a man had cheated 
in an examination; his roommate in a gust of sentiment 
had taken the entire blame due to the shame of it the 
innocent one's entire future seemed shrouded in regret 
and failure, capped by the ingratitude of the real culprit. 
He had finally taken his own life years afterward the 
facts had come out. At the time the story had both 
puzzled and worried Amory. Now he realized the truth; 
that sacrifice was no purchase of freedom. It was like 
a great elective office, it was like an inheritance of power 
to certain people at certain times an essential luxury, 
carrying with it not a guarantee but a responsibility, 
not a security but an infinite risk. Its very momentum 
might drag him down to ruin the passing of the emo- 
tional wave that made it possible might leave the one 
who made it high and dry forever on an island of despair. 

. . . Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly 
hate him for having done so much for him. . . . 

... All this was flung before Amory like an opened 
scroll, while ulterior to him and speculating upon him 
were those two breathless, listening forces: the gossamer 
aura that hung over and about the girl and that familiar 
thing by the window. 

Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and imper- 
sonal; sacrifice should be eternally supercilious. 

Weep not for me but for thy children. 

That thought Amory would be somehow the way 
God would talk to me. 

Amory felt a sudden surge of joy and then like a face 
in a motion-picture the aura over the bed faded out; the 
dynamic shadow by the window, that was as near as he 
could name it, remained for the fraction of a moment 
and then the breeze seemed to lift it swiftly out of the 
room. He clinched his hands in quick ecstatic excite- 
ment . . . the ten seconds were up. . . . 


"Do what I say, Alec do what I say. Do you under- 

Alec looked at him dumbly his face a tableau of an- 

"You have a family," continued Amory slowly. 
"You have a family and it's important that you should 
get out of this. Do you hear me ? " He repeated clearly 
what he had said. "Do you hear me?" 

"I hear you." The voice was curiously strained, the 
eyes never for a second left Amory's. 

"Alec, you're going to lie down here. If any one comes 
in you act drunk. You do what I say if you don't I'll 
probably kill you." 

There was another moment while they stared at each 
other. Then Amory went briskly to the bureau and, 
taking his pocket-book, beckoned peremptorily to the 
girl. He heard one word from Alec that sounded like 
"penitentiary," then he and Jill were in the bathroom 
with the door bolted behind them. 

"You're here with me," he said sternly. "You've been 
with me all evening." 

She nodded, gave a little half cry. 

In a second he had the door of the other room open 
and three men entered. There was an immediate flood 
of electric light and he stood there blinking. 

".You've been playing a little too dangerous a game, 
young man ! " 

Amory laughed. 


The leader o* the trio nodded authoritatively at a 
burly man in a check suit. 

"All right, Olson." 

"I got you, Mr. O'May," said Olson, nodding. The 
other two took a curious glance at their quarry and then 
withdrew, closing the door angrily behind them. 


The burly man regarded Amory contemptuously. 

"Didn't you ever hear of the Mann Act? Coming 
down here with her," he indicated the girl with his 
thumb, "with a New York license on your car to a 
hotel like this. " He shook his head implying that he had 
struggled over Amory but now gave him up. 

"Well," said Amory rather impatiently, "what do 
you want us to do?" 

"Get dressed, quick and tell your friend not to make 
such a racket." Jill was sobbing noisily on the bed, but 
at these words she subsided sulkily and, gathering up her 
clothes, retired to the bathroom. As Amory slipped into 
Alec's B. V. D.'s he found that his attitude toward the 
situation was agreeably humorous. The aggrieved virtue 
of the burly man made him want to laugh. 

"Anybody else here?" demanded Olson, trying to 
look keen and ferret-like. 

"Fellow who had the rooms," said Amory carelessly. 
"He's drunk as an owl, though. Been in there asleep 
since six o'clock." 

"I'll take a look at him presently." 

"How did you find out ? " asked Amory curiously. 

"Night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman." 

Amory nodded; Jill reappeared from the bathroom, 
completely if rather untidily arrayed. 

"Now then," began Olson, producing a note-book, "I 
want your real names no damn John Smith or Mary 

"Wait a minute," said Amory quietly. "Just drop 
that big-bully stuff. We merely got caught, that's all." 

Olson glared at him. 

"Name?" he snapped. 

Amory gave his name and New York address. 

"And the lady?" 

"Miss Jill " 


"Say," cried Olson indignantly, "just ease up on the 
nursery rhymes. What's your name? Sarah Murphy? 
Minnie Jackson?" 

"Oh. my God ! " cried the girl cupping her tear-stained 
face in her hands. "I don't want my mother to know. 
I don't want my mother to know." 

"Come on now!" 

"Shut up !" cried Amory at Olson. 

An instant's pause. 

"Stella Robbins," she faltered finally. "General 
Delivery, Rugway, New Hampshire." 

Olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them 
very ponderously. 

"By rights the hotel could turn the evidence over to 
the police and you'd go to penitentiary, you would, for 
bringin' a girl from one State to 'nother f'r immoral pur- 
p'ses " he paused to let the majesty of his words sink 
in. "But the hotel is going to let you off." 

"It doesn't want to get in the papers," cried Jill 
fiercely. "Let us off! Huh!" 

A great lightness surrounded Amory. He realized that 
he was safe and only then did he appreciate the full 
enormity of what he might have incurred. 

"However," continued Olson, "there's a protective 
association among the hotels. There's been too much of 
this stuff, and we got a 'rangement with the newspapers 
so that you get a little free publicity. Not the name of 
the hotel, but just a line sayin' that you had a little 
trouble in 'lantic City. See?" 

"I see." 

"You're gettin' off light damn light but " 

"Come on," said Amory briskly. "Let's get out of 
here. We don't need a valedictory." 

Olson walked through the bathroom and took a cur- 
sory glance at Alec's still form. Then he extinguished the 


lights and motioned them to follow him. As they walked 
into the elevator Amory considered a piece of bravado 
yielded finally. He reached out and tapped Olson on the 

"Would you mind taking off your hat? There's a 
lady in the elevator." 

Olson's hat came off slowly. There was a rather em- 
barrassing two minutes under the lights of the lobby 
while the night clerk and a few belated guests stared at 
them curiously; the loudly dressed girl with bent head, 
the handsome young man with his chin several points 
aloft; the inference was quite obvious. Then the chill 
outdoors where the salt air was fresher and keener 
still with the first hints of morning. 

"You can get one of those taxis and beat it," said 
Olson, pointing to the blurred outline of two machines 
whose drivers were presumably asleep inside. 

"Good-by," said Olson. He reached in his pocket 
suggestively, but Amory snorted, and, taking the girl's 
arm, turned away. 

"Where did you tell the driver to go?" she asked as 
they whirled along the dim street. 

"The station." 

"If that guy writes my mother " 

"He won't. Nobody'll ever know about this except 
our friends and enemies." 

Dawn was breaking over the sea. 

"It's getting blue," she said. 

"It does very well," agreed Amory critically, and 
then as an after- thought: "It's almost breakfast- time 
do you want something to eat?" 

"Food " she said with a cheerful laugh. "Food is 
what queered the party. We ordered a big supper to 
be sent up to the room about two o'clock. Alec didn't 


give the -waiter a tip, so I guess the little bastard 

Jill's low spirits seemed to have gone faster than the 
scattering night. "Let me tell you," she said emphat- 
ically, "when you want to stage that sorta party stay 
away from liquor, and when you want to get tight stay 
away from bedrooms." 

"I'll remember." 

He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at 
the door of an all-night restaurant. 

"Is Alec a great friend of yours?" asked Jill as they 
perched themselves on high stools inside, and set their 
elbows on the dingy counter. 

"He used to be. He probably won't want to be any 
more and never "understand why." 

"It was sorta crazy you takin' all that blame. Is he 
pretty important? Kinda more important than you 

Amory laughed. 

"That remains to be seen," he answered. "Tttat's 
the question." 


Two days later back in New York Amory found in a 
newspaper what he had been searching for a dcen 
lines which announced to whom it might concern that 
Mr. Amory Elaine, who "gave his address" as, etc., had 
been requested to leave his hotel in Atlantic City be- 
cause of entertaining in his room a lady not his wife. 

Then he started, and his ringers trembled, for directly 
above was a longer paragraph of which the first words 

"Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing 


the engagement of their daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. 
Dawson Ryder, of Hartford, Connecticut 

He dropped the paper and lay down on his bed with a 
frightened, sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. 
She was gone, definitely, finally gone. Until now he had 
half unconsciously cherished the hope deep in his heart 
that some day she would need him and send for him, 
cry that it had been a mistake, that her heart ached only 
for the pain she had caused him. Never again could he 
find even the sombre luxury of wanting her not this 
Rosalind, harder, older nor any beaten, broken woman 
that his imagination brought to the door of his forties 
Amory had wanted her youth, the fresh radiance of her 
mind and body, the stuff that she was selling now once 
and for all. So far as he was concerned, young Rosalind 
was dead. 

A day later came a crisp, terse letter from Mr. Barton 
in Chicago, which informed him that as three more 
street-car companies had gone into the hands of receivers 
he could expect for the present no further remittances. 
Last of all, on a dazed Sunday night, a telegram told 
him of Monsignor Darcy's sudden death in Philadelphia 
five days before. 

He knew then what it was that he had perceived among 
the curtains of the room in Atlantic City. 


"A fathom deep in sleep I lie 

With old desires, restrained before, 
To clamor lifeward with a cry, 

As dark flies out the greying door; 
And so in quest of creeds to share 

I seek assertive day again . . . 
But old monotony is there: 

Endless avenues of rain. 

Oh, might I rise again I Might I 

Throw of the heat of that old wine, 
See the new morning mass the sky 

With fairy towers, line on line; 
Find each mirage in the high air 

A symbol, not a dream again . . . 
But old monotony is there : 

Endless avenues of rain.'' 

UNDER the glass portcullis of a theatre Amory stood, 
watching the first great drops of rain splatter down and 
flatten to dark stains on the sidewalk. The air became 
gray and opalescent; a solitary light suddenly outlined 
a window over the way; then another light; then a 
hundred more danced and glimmered into vision. 
Under his feet a thick, iron-studded skylight turned 
yellow; in the street the lamps of the taxi-cabs sent out 
glistening sheens along the already black pavement. 
The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen 
the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient 
fence, the night. 

The silence of the theatre behind him ended with a 
curious snapping sound, followed by the heavy roaring 



of a rising crowd and the interlaced clatter of many 
voices. The matinee was over. 

He stood aside, edged a little into the rain to let the 
throng pass. A small boy rushed out, sniffed in the 
damp, fresh air and turned up the collar of his coat; 
came three or four couples in a great hurry; came a 
further scattering of people whose eyes as they emerged 
glanced invariably, first at the wet street, then at the 
rain-filled air, finally at the dismal sky; last a dense, 
strolling mass that depressed him with its heavy odor 
compounded of the tobacco smell of the men and the 
fetid sensuousness of stale powder on women. After 
the thick crowd came another scattering; a stray half- 
dozen; a man on crutches; finally the rattling bang of 
folding seats inside announced that the ushers were at 

New York seemed not so much awakening as turning 
over in its bed. Pallid men rushed by, pinching together 
their coat-collars; a great swarm of tired, magpie girls 
from a department-store crowded along with shrieks of 
strident laughter, three to an umbrella; a squad of 
marching policemen passed, already miraculously pro- 
tected by oilskin capes. 

The rain gave Amory a feeling of detachment, and the 
numerous unpleasant aspects of city life without money 
occurred to him in threatening procession. There was 
the ghastly, stinking crush of the subway the car cards 
thrusting themselves at one, leering out like dull bores 
who grab your arm with another story; the querulous 
worry as to whether some one isn't leaning on you; a 
man deciding not to give his seat to a woman, hating her 
for it; the woman hating him for not doing it; at worst 
a* squalid phantasmagoria of breath, and old cloth on 
human bodies and the smells of the food men ate at 
best just people too hot or too cold, tired, worried. 


He pictured the rooms where these people lived 
where the patterns of the blistered wall-papers were 
heavy reiterated sunflowers on green and yellow back- 
grounds, where there were tin bathtubs and gloomy 
hallways and verdureless, unnamable spaces in back of 
the buildings; where even love dressed as seduction a 
sordid murder around the corner, illicit motherhood in, 
the flat above. And always there was the economical^ 
stuffiness of indoor winter, and the long summers, 
nightmares of perspiration between sticky enveloping 
walls . . . dirty restaurants where careless, tired peo- 
ple helped themselves to sugar with their own used 
coffee-spoons, leaving hard brown deposits in the bowl. 

It was not so bad where there were only men or else 
only women; it was when they were vilely herded that it 
all seemed so rotten. It was some shame that women 
gave off at having men see them tired and poor it was 
some disgust that men had for women who were tired 
and poor. It was dirtier than any battle-field he had 
seen, harder to contemplate than any actual hardship 
moulded of mire and sweat and danger, it was an atmos- 
phere wherein birth and marriage and death were 
loathsome, secret things. 

He remembered one day in the subway when a de- 
livery boy had brought in a great funeral wreath of fresh 
flowers, how the smell of it had suddenly cleared the air 
and given every one in the car a momentary glow. 

"I detest poor people," thought Amory suddenly. 
"I hate them for being poor. Poverty may have been 
beautiful once, but it's rotten now. It's the ugliest 
thing in the world. It's essentially cleaner to be cor- 
rupt and rich than it is to be innocent and poor." He 
seemed to see again a figure whose significance had once 
impressed him a well-dressed young man gazing from 
a club window on Fifth Avenue and saying something 


to his companion with a look of utter disgust. Prob- 
ably, thought Amory, what he said was: "My God! 
Aren't people horrible ! " 

Never before in his life had Amory considered poor 
people. He thought cynically how completely he was 
lacking in all human sympathy. O. Henry had found 
in these people romance, pathos, love, hate Amory 
saw only coarseness, physical filth, and stupidity. He 
made no self-accusations: never any more did he re- 
proach himself for feelings that were natural and sin- 
cere. He accepted all his reactions as a part of him, 
unchangeable, unmoral. This problem of poverty trans- 
formed, magnified, attached to some grander, more 
dignified attitude might some day even be his problem; 
at present it roused only his profound distaste. 

He walked over to Fifth Avenue, dodging the blind, 
black menace of umbrellas, and standing in front of 
Delmonico's hailed an auto-bus. Buttoning his coat 
closely around him he climbed to the roof, where he rode 
in solitary state through the thin, persistent rain, stung 
into alertness by the cool moisture perpetually reborn 
on his cheek. Somewhere in his mind a conversation 
began, rather resumed its place in his attention. It was 
composed not of two voices, but of one, which acted alike 
as questioner and answerer: 

Question.-~^We]l what's the situation? 

Answer. That I have about twenty-four dollars to 
my name. 

Q. You have the Lake Geneva estate. 

A. But I intend to keep it. 

Q. Can you live? 

A. I can't imagine not being able to. People make 
money in books and I've found that I can always do the 
things that people do in books. Really they are the only 
things I can do. 


Q. Be definite. 

A. I don't know what I'll do nor have I much 
curiosity. To-morrow I'm going to leave New York for 
good. It's a bad town unless you're on top of it. 

Q. Do you want a lot of money ? 

A. No. I am merely afraid of being poor. 

Q. Very afraid ? 

A. Just passively afraid. 

Q. Where are you drifting? 

A. Don't ask me! 

Q. Don't you care? 

A. Rather. I don't want to commit moral suicide. 

Q. Have you no interests left? 

A. None. I've no more virtue to lose. Just as a 
cooling pot gives off heat, so all through youth and 
adolescence we give off calories of virtue. That's what's 
called ingenuousness. 

Q. An interesting idea. 

A. That's why a "good man going wrong" attracts 
people. They stand around and literally warm them- 
selves at the calories of virtue he gives off. Sarah makes 
an unsophisticated remark and the faces simper in de- 
light "How innocent the poor child is!" They're 
warming themselves at her virtue. But Sarah sees the 
simper and never makes that remark again. Only she 
feels a little colder after that. 

Q. All your calories gone? 

A. All of them. I'm beginning to warm myself at 
other people's virtue. 

Q. Are you corrupt? 

A. I think so. I'm not sure. I'm not sure about 
good and evil at all any more. 

Q, Is that a bad sign in itself? 

A . Not necessarily. 

Q. What would be the test of corruption? 


A. Becoming really insincere calling myself "not 
such a bad fellow," thinking I regretted my lost youth 
when I only envy the delights of losing it. Youth is 
like having a big plate of candy. Sentimentalists think 
they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in 
before they ate the candy. They don't. They just 
want the fun of eating it all over again. The matron 
doesn't want to repeat her girlhood she wants to repeat 
her honeymoon. I don't want to repeat my innocence. 
I want the pleasure of losing it again. 

Q. Where are you drifting? 

This dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind's 
most familiar state a grotesque blending of desires, 
worries, exterior impressions and physical reactions. 

One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street or One 
Hundred and Thirty-seventh Street. . . . Two and 
three look alike no, not much. Seat damp . . . are 
clothes absorbing wetness from seat, or seat absorbing 
dryness from clothes? . . . Sitting on wet substance 
gave appendicitis, so Froggy Parker's mother said. 
Well, he'd had it I'll sue the steamboat company, 
Beatrice said, and my uncle has a quarter interest did 
Beatrice go to heaven? . . . probably not He rep- 
resented Beatrice's immortality, also love-affairs of 
numerous dead men who surely had never thought of 
him ... if it wasn't appendicitis, influenza maybe. 
What? One Hundred and Twentieth Street? That 
must have been One Hundred and Twelfth back there. 
One O Two instead of One Two Seven. Rosalind not 
like Beatrice, Eleanor like Beatrice, only wilder and 
brainier. Apartments along here expensive probably 
hundred and fifty a month maybe two hundred. 
Uncle had only paid hundred a month for whole great 
big house in Minneapolis. Question were the stairs 
on the left or right as you came in? Anyway, in 12 


Univee they were straight back and to the left. What 
a dirty river want to go down there and see if it's 
dirty French rivers all brown or black, so were South- 
ern rivers. Twenty-four dollars meant four hundred and 
eighty doughnuts. He could live on it three months and 
sleep in the park. Wonder where Jill was Jill Bayne, 
Fayne, Sayne what the devil neck hurts, darned un- 
comfortable seat. No desire to sleep with Jill, what 
could Alec see in her ? Alec had a coarse taste in women. 
Own taste the best; Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor, 
were all-American. Eleanor would pitch, probably 
southpaw. Rosalind was outfield, wonderful hitter, 
Clara first base, maybe. Wonder what Humbird's body 
looked like now. If he himself hadn't been bayonet 
instructor he'd have gone up to line three months 
sooner, probably been killed. Where's the darned 

The street numbers of Riverside Drive were obscured 
by the mist and dripping trees from anything but the 
swiftest scrutiny, but Amory had finally caught sight of 
one One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street. He got 
off and with no distinct destination followed a winding, 
descending sidewalk and came out facing the river, in 
particular a long pier and a partitioned litter of ship- 
yards for miniature craft: small launches, canoes, row- 
boats, and catboats. He turned northward and fol- 
lowed the shore, jumped a small wire fence and found 
himself in a great disorderly yard adjoining a dock. 
The hulls of many boats in various stages of repair 
were around him; he smelled sawdust and paint and the 
scarcely distinguishable flat odor of the Hudson. A 
man approached through the heavy gloom. 

"Hello," said Amory. 

"Got a pass?" 

"No. Is this private?" 


"This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht 

"Oh ! I didn't know. I'm just resting." 

"Well " began the man dubiously. 

"I'll go if you want me to." 

The man made non-committal noises in his throat 
and passed on. Amory seated himself on an overturned 
boat and leaned forward thoughtfully until his chin 
rested in his hand. 

"Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad 
man," he said slowly. 


While the rain drizzled on Amory looked futilely back 
at the stream of his life, all its glitterings and dirty 
shallows. To begin with, he was still afraid not phys- 
ically afraid any more, but afraid of people and prejudice 
and misery and monotony. Yet, deep in his bitter heart, 
he wondered if he was after all worse than this man or 
the next. He knew that he could sophisticate himself 
finally into saying that his own weakness was just the 
result of circumstances and environment; that often 
when he raged at himself as an egotist something would 
whisper ingratiatingly: "No. Genius!" That was one 
manifestation of fear, that voice which whispered that 
he could not be both great and good, that genius was 
the exact combination of those inexplicable grooves and 
twists in his mind, that any discipline would curb it to 
mediocrity. Probably more than any concrete vice or 
failing Amory despised his own personality he loathed 
knowing that to-morrow and the thousand days after 
he would swell pompously at a compliment and sulk at 
an ill word like a third-rate musician or a first-class 
actor. He was ashamed of the fact that very simple 


and honest people usually distrusted him; that he had 
been cruel, often, to those who had sunk their per- 
sonalities in him several girls, and a man here and there 
through college, that he had been an evil influence on; 
people who had followed him here and there into mental 
adventures from which he alone rebounded unscathed. 
Usually, on nights like this, for there had been many 
lately, he could escape from this consuming introspec- 
tion by thinking of children and the infinite possibilities 
of children he leaned and listened and he heard a 
startled baby awake in a house across the street and 
lend a tiny whimper to the still night. Quick as a flash 
he turned away, wondering with a touch of panic whether 
something in the brooding despair of his mood had made 
a darkness in its tiny soul. He shivered. What if some 
day the balance was overturned, and he became a thing 
that frightened children and crept into rooms in the 
dark, approached dim communion with those phantoms 
who whispered shadowy secrets to the mad of that dark 
continent upon the moon. . . . 

Amory smiled a bit. 

"You're too much wrapped up in yourself," he heard 
some one say. And again 

"Get out and do some real work " 

"Stop worrying " 

He fancied a possible future comment of his own. 

"Yes I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon 
found it made me morbid to think too much about my- 

Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to let him- 
self go to the devil not to go violently as a gentleman 
should, but to sink safely and sensuously out of sight. 
He pictured himself in an adobe house in Mexico, half- 


reclining on a rug-covered couch, his slender, artistic 
fingers closed on a cigarette while he listened to guitars 
strumming melancholy undertones to an age-old dirge 
of Castile and an olive-skinned, carmine-lipped girl 
caressed his hair. Here he might live a strange litany, 
delivered from right and wrong and from the hound of 
heaven and from every God (except the exotic Mexican 
one who was pretty slack himself and rather addicted to 
Oriental scents) delivered from success and hope and 
poverty into that long chute of indulgence which led, 
after all, only to the artificial lake of death. 

There were so many places where one might deterio- 
rate pleasantly: Port Said, Shanghai, parts of Turkes- 
tan, Constantinople, the South Seas all lands of sad, 
haunting music and many odors, where lust could be a 
mode and expression of life, where the shades of night 
skies and sunsets would seem to reflect only moods of 
passion: the colors of lips and poppies. 


Once he had been miraculously able to scent evil as a 
horse detects a broken bridge at night, but the man with 
the queer feet in Phoebe's room had diminished to the 
aura over Jill. His instinct perceived the fetidness of 
poverty, but no longer ferreted out the deeper evils hi 
pride and sensuality. 

There were no more wise men; there were no more 
heroes; Burne Holiday was sunk from sight as though 
he had never lived; Monsignor was dead. Amory had 
grown up to a thousand books, a thousand lies; he had 
listened eagerly to people who pretended to know, who 
knew nothing. The mystical reveries of saints that had 
once filled him with awe in the still hours of night, now 
vaguely repelled him. The Byrons and Brookes who 


had defied life from mountain tops were in the end but 
flaneurs and poseurs, at best mistaking the shadow of 
courage for the substance of wisdom. The pageantry of 
his disillusion took shape in a world-old procession of 
Prophets, Athenians, Martyrs, Saints, Scientists, Don 
Juans, Jesuits, Puritans, Fausts, Poets, Pacifists; like 
costumed alumni at a college reunion they streamed be- 
fore him as their dreams, personalities, and creeds had 
in turn thrown colored lights on his soul; each had tried 
to express the glory of life and the tremendous sig- 
nificance of man; each had boasted of synchronizing 
what had gone before into his own rickety generalities; 
each had depended after all on the set stage and the 
convention of the theatre, which is that man in his 
hunger for faith will feed his mind with the nearest and 
most convenient food. 

Women of whom he had expected so much; whose 
beauty he had hoped to transmute into modes of art; 
whose unfathomable instincts, marvellously incoherent 
and inarticulate, he had thought to perpetuate in terms 
of experience had become merely consecrations to then- 
own posterity. Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor, were 
all removed by their very beauty, around which men 
had swarmed, from the possibility of contributing any- 
thing but a sick heart and a page of puzzled words to 

Amory based his loss of faith in help from others on 
several sweeping syllogisms. Granted that his genera- 
tion, however bruised and decimated from this Vic- 
torian war, were the heirs of progress. Waving aside 
petty differences of conclusions which, although they 
might occasionally cause the deaths of several millions 
of young men, might be explained away supposing that 
after all Bernard Shaw and Bernhardi, Bonar Law and 
Bethmann-Hollweg were mutual heirs of progress if only 


in agreeing against the ducking of witches waiving the 
antitheses and approaching individually these men who 
seemed to be the leaders, he was repelled by the dis- 
crepancies and contradictions in the men themselves. 

There was, for example, Thornton Hancock, respected 
by half the intellectual world as an authority on life, a 
man who had verified and believed the code he lived by, 
an educator of educators, an adviser to Presidents 
yet Amory knew that this man had, in his heart, leaned 
on the priest of another religion. 

And Monsignor, upon whom a cardinal rested, had 
moments of strange and horrible insecurity inexplicable 
in a religion that explained even disbelief in terms of its 
own faith: if you doubted the devil it was the devil that 
made you doubt him. Amory had seen Monsignor go 
to the houses of stolid philistines, read popular novels 
furiously, saturate himself in routine, to escape from 
that horror. 

And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had 
been, Amory knew, not essentially older than he. 

Amory was alone he had escaped from a small en- 
closure into a great labyrinth. He was where Goethe 
was when he began ".Faust"; he was where Conrad was 
when he wrote "Almayer's Folly." 

Amory said to himself that there were essentially two 
sorts of people who through natural clarity or disil- 
lusion left the enclosure and sought the labyrinth. 
There were men like Wells and Plato, who had, half un- 
consciously, a strange, hidden orthodoxy, who would 
accept for themselves only what could be accepted for 
all men incurable romanticists who never, for all their 
efforts, could enter the labyrinth as stark souls; there 
were on the other hand sword-like pioneering personali- 
ties, Samuel Butler, Renan, Voltaire, who progressed 
much slower, yet eventually much further, not in the 


direct pessimistic line of speculative philosophy but con- 
cerned in the eternal attempt to attach a positive value 
to life. . . . 

Amory stopped. He began for the first time in his 
life to have a strong distrust of all generalities and epi- 
grams. They were too easy, too dangerous to the public 
mind. Yet all thought usually reached the public after 
thirty years in some such form: Benson and Chesterton 
had popularized Huysmans and Newman; Shaw had 
sugar-coated Nietzsche and Ibsen and Schopenhauer. 
The man in the street heard the conclusions of dead 
genius through some one else's clever paradoxes and 
didactic epigrams. 

Life was a damned muddle ... a football game with 
every one off-side and the referee gotten rid of every 
one claiming the referee would have been on his 
side. . . . 

Progress was a labyrinth . . . people plunging blindly 
in and then rushing wildly back, shouting that they had 
found it ... the invisible king the elan vital the 
principle of evolution . . . writing a book, starting a 
war, founding a school. . . . 

Amory, even had he not been a selfish man, would 
have started all inquiries with himself. He was his 
own .best example sitting in the rain, a human creature 
of sex and pride, foiled by chance and his own tempera- 
ment of the balm of love and children, preserved to help 
in building up the living consciousness of the race. 

In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came 
to the entrance of the labyrinth. 

Another dawn flung itself across the river; a belated 
taxi hurried along the street, its lamps still shining like 
burning eyes in a face white from a night's carouse. A 
melancholy siren sounded far down the river. 




Amory kept thinking how Monsignor would have en- 
joyed his own funeral. It was magnificently Catholic 
and liturgical. Bishop O'Neill sang solemn high mass 
and the cardinal gave the final absolutions. Thornton 
Hancock, Mrs. Lawrence, the British and Italian am- 
bassadors, the papal delegate, and a host of friends 
and priests were there yet the inexorable shears had 
cut through all these threads that Monsignor had gath- 
ered into his hands. To Amory it was a haunting 
grief to see him lying in his coffin, with dosed hands 
upon his purple vestments. His face had not changed, 
and, as he never knew he was dying, it showed no pain 
or fear. It was Amory's dear old friend, his and the 
others' for the church was full of people with daft, star- 
ing faces, the most exalted seeming the most stricken. 

The cardinal, like an archangel in cope and mitre, 
sprinkled the holy water; the organ broke into sound; 
the choir began to sing the Requiem Eternam. 

All these people grieved because they had to some 
extent depended upon Monsignor. Their grief was 
more than sentiment for the "crack in his voice or a 
certain break in his walk," as Wells put it. These 
people had leaned on Monsignor's faith, his way of 
finding cheer, of making religion a thing of lights and 
shadows, making all light and shadow merely aspects 
of God. People felt safe when he was near. 

Of Amory's attempted sacrifice had been born merely 
the full realization of his disillusion, but of Monsignor's 
funeral was born the romantic elf who was to enter the 
labyrinth with him. He found something that he 
wanted, had always wanted and always would want 
not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved, as 
he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to 


people, to be indispensable; he remembered the sense of 
security he had found in Burne. 

Life opened up in one of its amazing bursts of radiance 
and Amory suddenly and permanently rejected an old 
epigram that had been playing listlessly in his mind: 
"Very few things matter and nothing matters very 

On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give 
people a sense of security. 


On the day that Amory started on his walk to Prince- 
ton the sky was a colorless vault, cool, high and barren 
of the threat of rain. It was a gray day, that least 
fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes 
and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with 
those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the 
sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light 
of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in 
classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had 
harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, 
breathless as the Grecian urn. 

The day had put Amory in such a contemplative mood 
that he caused much annoyance to several motorists 
who were forced to slow up considerably or else run him 
down. So engrossed in his thoughts was he that he was 
scarcely surprised at that strange phenomenon cor- 
diality manifested within fifty miles of Manhattan 
when a passing car slowed down beside him and a voice 
hailed him. He looked up and saw a magnificent Loco- 
mobile in which sat two middle-aged men, one of them 
small and anxious looking, apparently an artificial 
growth on the other who was large and begoggled and 


"Do you want a lift?" asked the apparently artificial 
growth, glancing from the corner of his eye at the im- 
posing man as if for some habitual, silent corroboration. 

"You bet I do. Thanks." 

The chauffeur swung open the door, and, climbing in, 
Amory settled himself in the middle of the back seat. 
He took in his companions curiously. The chief char- 
acteristic of the big man seemed to be a great confidence 
in himself set off against a tremendous boredom with 
everything around him. That part of his face which 
protruded under the goggles was what is generally 
termed "strong"; rolls of not undignified fat had col- 
lected near his chin; somewhere above was a wide thin 
mouth and the rough model for a Roman nose, and, be- 
low, his shoulders collapsed without a struggle into the 
powerful bulk of his chest and belly. He was excellently 
and quietly dressed. Amory noticed that he was in- 
clined to stare straight at the back of the chauffeur's 
head as if speculating steadily but hopelessly some baf- 
fling hirsute problem. 

The smaller man was remarkable only for his com- 
plete submersion in the personality of the other. He 
was of that lower secretarial type who at forty have 
engraved upon their business cards: "Assistant to the 
President," and without a sigh consecrate the rest of 
their lives to second-hand mannerisms. 

"Going far?" asked the smaller man in a pleasant 
disinterested way. 

"Quite a stretch." 

"Hiking for exercise?" 

"No," responded Amory succinctly, "I'm walking be- 
cause I can't afford to ride." 


Then again: 

"Are you looking for work? Because there's lots of 


work/' he continued rather testily. "All this talk of 
lack of work. The West is especially short of labor." 
He expressed the West with a sweeping, lateral gesture. 
Amory nodded politely. 

"H^ve you a trade?" 

No Amory had no trade. 

"Clerk, eh?" 

No Amory was not a clerk. 

"Whatever your line is," said the little man, seeming 
to agree wisely with something Amory had said, "now 
is the time of opportunity and business openings." He 
glanced again toward the big man, as a lawyer grilling 
a witness glances involuntarily at the jury. 

Amory decided that he must say something and for 
the life of him could think of only one thing to say. 

"Of course I want a great lot of money " 

The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously. 

"That's what every one wants nowadays, but they 
don't want to work for it." 

"A very natural, healthy desire. Almost all normal 
people want to be rich without great effort except the 
financiers in problem plays, who want to 'crash their 
way through.' Don't you want easy money?" 

"Of course not," said the secretary indignantly. 

"But," continued Amory disregarding him, "being 
very poor at present I am contemplating socialism as 
possibly my forte." 

Both men glanced at him curiously. 

"These bomb throwers " The little man ceased as 
words lurched ponderously from the big man's chest. 

"If I thought you were a bomb thrower I'd run you 
over to the Newark jail. That's what I think of Social- 

Amory laughed. 

"What are you," asked the big man, "one of these 


parlor Bolsheviks, one of these idealists? I must say I 
fail to see the difference. The idealists loaf around and 
write the stuff that stirs up the poor immigrants." 

"Well," said Amory, "if being an idealist is both safe 
and lucrative, I might try it." 

"What's your difficulty? Lost your job?" 

"Not exactly, but well, call it that." 

"What was it?" 

"Writing copy for an advertising agency." 

"Lots of money in advertising." 

Amory smiled discreetly. 

"Oh, I'll admit there's money in it eventually. Tal- 
ent doesn't starve any more. Even art gets enough to 
eat these days. Artists draw your magazine covers, 
write your advertisements, hash out rag-time for your 
theatres. By the great commercializing of printing 
you've found a harmless, polite occupation for every 
genius who might have carved his own niche. But be- 
ware the artist who's an intellectual also. The artist 
who doesn't fit the Rousseau, the Tolstoi, the Samuel 
Butler, the Amory Blaine " 

"Who's he?" demanded the little man suspiciously. 

"Well," said Amory, "he's a he's an intellectual 
personage not very well known at present." 

The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and 
stopped rather suddenly as Amory's burning eyes turned 
on him, 

"What are you laughing at?" 

"These intellectual people " 

"Do you know what it means?" 

The little man's eyes twitched nervously. 

"Why, it usually means " 

"It always means brainy and well-educated," inter- 
rupted Amory. "It means having an active knowledge 
of the race's experience." Amory decided to be very 


rude. He turned to the big man. "The young man," 
he indicated the secretary with his thumb, and said 
young man as one says bell-boy, with no implication of 
youth, "has the usual muddled connotation of all 
popular words." 

"You object to the fact that capital controls print- 
ing?" said the big man, fixing him with his goggles. 

"Yes and I object to doing their mental work for 
them. It seemed to me that the root of all the business 
I saw around me consisted in overworking and under- 
paying a bunch of dubs who submitted to it." 

"Here now," said the big man, "you'll have to admit 
that the laboring man is certainly highly paid five and 
six hour days it's ridiculous. You can't buy an honest 
day's work from a man in the trades-unions." 

"You've brought it on yourselves," insisted Amory. 
"You people never make concessions until they're wrung 
out of you." 

"What people?" 

"Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; 
those who by inheritance or industry or brains or dis- 
honesty have become the moneyed class." 

"Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there 
had the money he'd be any more willing to give it up?" 

"'No, but what's that got to do with it?" 

The older man considered. 

"No, I'll admit it hasn't. It rather sounds as if it 
had though." 

"In fact," continued Amory, "he'd be worse. The 
lower classes are narrower, less pleasant and personally 
more selfish certainly more stupid. But all that has 
nothing to do with the question." 

"Just exactly what is the question?" 

Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the 
question was. 



"When life gets hold of a brainy man of fair educa- 
tion," began Amory slowly, "that is, when he marries 
he becomes, nine times out of ten, a conservative as far 
as existing social conditions are concerned. He may be 
unselfish, kind-hearted, even just in his own way, but 
his first job is to provide and to hold fast. His wife 
shoos him on, from ten thousand a year to twenty thou- 
sand a year, on and on, in an enclosed treadmill that 
hasn't any windows. He's done ! Life's got him ! He's 
no help ! He's a spiritually married man." 

Amory paused and decided that it wasn't such a bad 

" Some men," he continued, " escape the grip. Maybe 
their wives have no social ambitions; maybe they've hit 
a sentence or two in a 'dangerous book' that pleased 
them; maybe they started on the treadmill as I did and 
were knocked off. Anyway, they're the congressmen 
you can't bribe, the Presidents who aren't politicians, 
the writers, speakers, scientists, statesmen who aren't 
just popular grab-bags for a half-dozen women and 

"He's the natural radical?" 

"Yes," said Amory. "He may vary from the disil- 
lusioned critic like old Thornton Hancock, all the way to 
Trotsky. Now this spiritually unmarried man hasn't 
direct power, for unfortunately the spiritually married 
man, as a by-product of his money chase, has garnered 
in the great newspaper, the popular magazine, the in- 
fluential weekly so that Mrs. Newspaper, Mrs. Maga- 
zine, Mrs. Weekly can have a better limousine than those 
oil people across the street or those cement people 'round 
the corner." 

"Why not?" 


" It makes wealthy men the keepers of the world's in- 
tellectual conscience and, of course, a man who has money 
under one set of social institutions quite naturally can't 
risk his family's happiness by letting the clamor for an- 
other appear in his newspaper." 

"But it appears," said the big man. 

"Where? in the discredited mediums. Rotten 
cheap-papered weeklies." 

"All right go on." 

"Well, my first point is that through a mixture of 
conditions of which the family is the first, there are these 
two sorts of brains. One sort takes human nature as it 
finds it, uses its timidity, its weakness, and its strength 
for its own ends. Opposed is the man who, being 
spiritually unmarried, continually seeks for new sys- 
tems that will control or counteract human nature. His 
problem is harder. It is not life that's complicated, 
it's the struggle to guide and control life. That is his 
struggle. He is a part of progress the spiritually 
married man is not." 

The big man produced three big cigars, and proffered 
them on his huge palm. The little man took one, 
Amory shook his head and reached for a cigarette. 

"Go on talking," said the big man. "I've been want- 
ing to hear one of you fellows." 


"Modern life," began Amory again, "changes no 
longer century by century, but year by year, ten times 
faster than it eveir has before populations doubling, 
civilizations unified more closely with other civilizations, 
economic inter5lependence, racial questions, and we're 
dawdling along. My idea is that we've got to go very 
much faster." He slightly emphasized the last words 


and the chauffeur unconsciously increased the speed ol 
the car. Amory and the big man laughed; the little 
man laughed, too, after a pause. 

"Every child," said Amory, "should have an equal 
start. If his father can endow him with a good physique 
and his mother with some common sense in his early 
education, that should be his heritage. If the father 
can't give him a good physique, if the mother has spent 
in chasing men 'the years in which she should have been 
preparing herself to educate her children, so much the 
worse for the child. He shouldn't be artificially bol- 
stered up with money, sent to these horrible tutoring 
schools, dragged through college . . . Every boy 
ought to have an equal start." 

"All right," said the big man, his goggles indicating 
neither approval nor objection. 

"Next I'd have a fair trial of government ownership 
of all industries." 

"That's been proven a failure." 

"No it merely failed. If we had government owner- 
ship we'd have the best analytical business minds in the 
government working for something besides themselves. 
We'd have Mackays instead of Burlesons; we'd have 
Morgans in the Treasury Department; we'd have Hills 
running interstate commerce. We'd have the best 
lawyers in the Senate." 

"They wouldn't give their best efforts for nothing. 
McAdoo " 

"No," said Amory, shaking his head. "Money isn't 
the only stimulous that brings out the best that's in a 
man, even in America." 

"You said a while ago that it was." 

"It is, right now. But if it were made illegal to have 
more than a certain amount the best men would all 
flock for the one other reward which attracts humanity 


The big man made a sound that was very like boo. 

"That's the silliest thing you've said yet" 

"No, it isn't silly. It's quite plausible. If you'd 
gone to college you'd have been struck by the fact 
that the men there would work twice as hard for any 
one of a hundred petty honors as those other men did 
who were earning their way through." 

"Kids child's play!" scoffed his antagonist. 

"Not by a darned sight unless we're all children. 
Did you ever see a grown man when he's trying for a 
secret society or a rising family whose name is up at 
some club ? They'll jump when they hear the sound of 
the word. The idea that to make a man work you've 
got to hold gold in front of his eyes is a growth, not an 
axiom. We've done that for so long that we've forgotten 
there's any other way. We've made a world where 
that's necessary. Let me tell you" Amory became 
emphatic "if there were ten men insured against either 
wealth or starvation, and offered a green ribbon for five 
hours' work a day and a blue ribbon for ten hours' work 
a day, nine out of ten of them would be trying for the 
blue ribbon. That competitive instinct only wants a 
badge. If the size of their house is the badge they'll 
sweat their heads off for that. If it's only a blue ribbon, 
I damn near believe they'll work just as hard. They 
have in other ages." 

"I don't agree with you." 

"I know it," said Amory nodding sadly. "It doesn't 
matter any more though. I think these people are going 
to come and take what they want pretty soon." 

A fierce hiss came from the little man. 


"Ah, but you've taught them their use." 

The big man shook his head. 

"In this country there are enough property owners not 
to permit that sort of thing." 


Amory wished he knew the statistics of property own- 
ers and non-property owners; he decided to change the 

But the big man was aroused. 

"When you talk of 'taking things away/ you're on 
dangerous ground." 

"How can they get it without taking it? For years 
people have been stalled off with promises. Socialism 
may not be progress, but the threat of the red flag is 
certainly the inspiring force of all reform. You've got 
to be sensational to get attention." 

"Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I 

"Quite possibly," admitted Amory. "Of course, it's 
overflowing just as the French Revolution did, but I've 
no doubt that it's really a great experiment and well 
worth while." 

"Don't you believe in moderation?" 

"You won't listen to the moderates, and it's almost 
too late. The truth is that the public has done one of 
those startling and amazing things that they do about 
once in a hundred years. They've seized an idea." 

"What is it?" 

"That however the brains and abilities of men may 
differ, their stomachs are essentially the same." 


"If you took all the money in the world," said the 
little man with much profundity, "and divided it up in 
equ " 

"Oh, shut up!" said Amory briskly and, paying no 
attention to the little man's enraged stare, he went on 
with his argument. 

"The human stomach " he began; but the big man 
interrupted rather impatiently. 


"I'm letting you talk, you know," he said, "but please 
avoid stomachs. I've been feeling mine all day. Any- 
way, I don't agree with one-half you've said. Govern- 
ment ownership is the basis of your whole argument, and 
it's invariably a beehive of corruption. Men won't 
work for blue ribbons, that's all rot." 

When he ceased the little man spoke up with a deter- 
mined nod, as if resolved this time to have his say out. 

"There are certain things which are human nature," 
he asserted with an owl-like look, "which always have 
been and always will be, which can't be changed." 

Amory looked from the small man to the big man 

"Listen to that! That's what makes me discouraged 
with progress. Listen to that ! I can name offhand over 
one hundred natural phenomena that have been changed 
by the will of man a hundred instincts in man that 
have been wiped out or are now held in check by civiliza- 
tion. What this man here just said has been for thou- 
sands of years the last refuge of the associated mutton- 
heads of the world. It negates the efforts of every scien- 
tist, statesman, moralist, reformer, doctor, and philoso- 
pher that ever gave his life to humanity's service. It's 
a flat impeachment of all that's worth while in human 
nature. Every person over twenty-five years old who 
makes that statement in cold blood ought to be deprived 
of the franchise." 

The little man leaned back against the seat, his face 
purple with rage. Amory continued, addressing his re- 
marks to the big man. 

"These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as 
your friend here, who think they think; every question 
that comes up, you'll find his type in the usual ghastly 
muddle. One minute it's ' the brutality and inhumanity 
of these Prussians' the next it's 'we ought to extermi- 
nate the whole German people.' They always believe 


that 'things are in a bad way now,' but they 'haven't 
any faith in these idealists.' One minute they call 
Wilson 'just a dreamer, not practical' a year later 
they rail at him for making his dreams realities. They 
haven't clear logical ideas on one single subject except 
a sturdy, stolid opposition to all change. They don't 
think uneducated people should be highly paid, but 
they won't see that if they don't pay the uneducated 
people their children are going to be uneducated too, 
and we're going round and round in a circle. That is 
the great middle class!" 

The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over 
and smiled at the little man. 

"You're catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do 
you feel ? " 

The little man made an attempt to smile and act as if 
the whole matter were so ridiculous as to be beneath 
notice. But Amory was not through. 

"The theory that people are fit to govern themselves 
rests on this man. If he can be educated to think 
clearly, concisely, and logically, freed of his habit of 
taking refuge in platitudes and prejudices and senti- 
mentalisms, then I'm a militant Socialist. If he can't, 
then I don't think it matters much what happens to 
man or his systems, now or hereafter." 

"I am both interested and amused," said the big man. 
"You are very young." 

"Which may only mean that I have neither been cor- 
rupted nor made timid by contemporary experience. I 
possess the most valuable experience, the experience of 
the race, for in spite of going to college I've managed to 
pick up a good education." 

"You talk glibly." 

"It's not all rubbish," cried Amory passionately. 
"This is the first time in my life I've argued Socialism. 


It's the only panacea I know. I'm restless. My whole 
generation is restless. I'm sick of a system where the 
richest man gets the most beautiful girl if he wants her, 
where the artist without an income has to sell his talents 
to a button manufacturer. Even if I had no talents I'd 
not be content to work ten years, condemned either to 
celibacy or a furtive indulgence, to give some man's son 
an automobile." 

"But, if you're not sure " 

"That doesn't matter," exclaimed Amory. "My 
position couldn't be worse. A social revolution might 
land me on top. Of course I'm selfish. It seems to me 
I've been a fish out of water in too many outworn sys- 
tems. I was probably one of the two dozen men in my 
class at college who got a decent education; still they'd 
let any well-tutored flathead play football and / was 
ineligible, because some silly old men thought we should 
all profit by conic sections. I loathed the army. I 
loathed business. I'm in love with change and I've 
killed my conscience " 

"So you'll go along crying that we must go faster." 

"That, at least, is true," Amory insisted. "Reform 
won't catch up to the needs of civilization unless it's 
made to. A laissez-faire policy is like spoiling a child 
by saying he'll turn out all right in the end. He will 
if he's made to." 

"But you don't believe all this Socialist patter you 

" I don't know. Until I talked to you I hadn't thought 
seriously about it. I wasn't sure of half of what I said." 

"You puzzle me," said the big man, "but you're all 
alike. They say Bernard Shaw, in spite of his doctrines, 
is the most exacting of all dramatists about his royal- 
ties. To the last farthing." 

"Well," said Amory, "I simply state that I'm a 


product of a versatile mind in a restless generation with 
every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the 
radicals. Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were 
all blind atoms in a world as limited as a stroke of a 
pendulum, I and my sort would struggle against tra- 
dition; try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones. 
I've thought I was right about life at various times, 
but faith is difficult. One thing I know. If living isn't 
a seeking for the grail it may be a damned amusing 

For a minute neither spoke and then the big man 

"What was your university?" 


. The big man became suddenly interested; the ex- 
pression of his goggles altered slightly. 

"I sent my son to Princeton." 

"Did you?" 

"Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Fer- 
renby. He was killed last year in France." 

"I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my 
particular friends." 

"He was a quite a fine boy. We were very close." 

Amory began to perceive a resemblance between the 
father and the dead son and he told himself that there 
had been all along a sense of familiarity. Jesse Ferrenby, 
the man who in college had borne off the crown that he 
had aspired to. It was all so far away. What little boys 
they had been, working for blue ribbons 

The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, 
ringed around by a huge hedge and a tall iron fence. 

"Won't you come in for lunch?" 

Amory shook his head. 

"Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I've got to get on." 


The big man held out his hand. Amory saw that the 
fact that he had known Jesse more than outweighed any 
disfavor he had created by his opinions. What ghosts 
were people with which to work ! Even the little man 
insisted on shaking hands. 

" Good-by ! " shouted Mr. Ferrenby, as the car turned 
the corner and started up the drive. " Good luck to you 
and bad luck to your theories." 

"Same to you, sir/' cried Amory, smiling and waving 
his hand. 

Eight hours from Princeton Amory sat down by the 
Jersey roadside and looked at the frost-bitten country. 
Nature as a rather coarse phenomenon composed largely 
of flowers that, when closely inspected, appeared moth- 
eaten, and of ants that endlessly traversed blades of 
grass, was always disillusioning; nature represented by 
skies and waters and far horizons was more likable. 
Frost and the promise of winter thrilled him now, made 
him think of a wild battle between St. Regis and Gro- 
ton, ages ago, seven years ago and of an autumn day 
in France twelve months before when he had lain in tall 
grass, his platoon flattened down close around him, 
waiting to tap the shoulders of a Lewis gunner. He saw 
the two pictures together with somewhat the same primi- 
tive exaltation two games he had played, differing in 
quality of acerbity, linked in a way that differed them 
from Rosalind or the subject of labyrinths which were, 
after all, the business of life. 

"I am selfish," he thought. 

"This is not a quality that will change when I 'see 
human suffering' or 'lose my parents' or 'help others.' 


"This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the 
most living part. 

"It is by somehow transcending rather than h' r avoid- 
ing that selfishness that I can bring poise and balance 
into my life. 

"There is no virtue of unselfishness that I cannot use. 
I can make sacrifices, be charitable, give to a friend, 
endure for a friend, lay down my life for a friend all 
because these things may be the best possible expres- 
sion of myself; yet I have not one drop of the milk of 
human kindness." 

The problem of evil had solidified for Amory into the 
problem of sex. He was beginning to identify evil with 
the strong phallic worship in Brooke and the early Wells. 
Inseparably linked with evil was beauty beauty, still 
a constant rising tumult; soft in Eleanor's voice, in an 
old song at night, rioting deliriously through life like 
superimposed waterfalls, half rhythm, half darkness. 
Amory knew that every time he had reached toward it 
longingly it had leered out at him with the grotesque 
face of evil. Beauty of great art, beauty of all joy, most 
of all the beauty of women. 

After all, it had too many associations with license 
and indulgence. Weak things were often beautiful, weak 
things were never good. And in this new loneness of 
his that had been selected for what greatness he might 
achieve, beauty must be relative or, itself a harmony, it 
would make only a discord. 

In a sense this gradual renunciation of beauty was the 
second step after his disillusion had been made com- 
plete. He felt that he was leaving behind him his chance 
of being a certain type of artist. It seemed so much 
more important to be a certain sort of man. 

His mind turned a corner suddenly and he found him- 


self thinking of the Catholic Church. The idea was 
strong in him that there was a certain intrinsic lack in 
those f/a whom orthodox religion was necessary, and 
religion to Amory meant the Church of Rome. Quite 
conceivably it was an empty ritual but it was seemingly 
the only assimilative, traditionary bulwark against the 
decay of morals. Until the great mobs could be edu- 
cated into a moral sense some one must cry: "Thou 
shalt not!" Yet any acceptance was, for the present, 
impossible. He wanted time and the absence of ulterior 
pressure. He wanted to keep the tree without orna- 
ments, realize fully the direction and momentum of this 
new start. 

The afternoon waned from the purging good of three 
o'clock to the golden beauty of four. Afterward he 
walked through the dull ache of a setting sun when even 
the clouds seemed bleeding and at twilight he came to 
a graveyard. There was a dusky, dreamy smell of 
flowers and the ghost of a new moon in the sky and 
shadows everywhere. On an impulse he considered 
trying to open the door of a rusty iron vault built into 
the side of a hill; a vault washed clean and covered with 
late-blooming, weepy watery-blue flowers that might 
have grown from dead eyes, sticky to the touch with a 
sickening odor. 

Amory wanted to feel "William Dayfield, 1864." 
He wondered that graves ever made people consider 
life in vain. Somehow he could find nothing hopeless 
in having lived. All the broken columns and clasped 
hands and doves and angels meant romances. He 
fancied that in a hundred years he would like having 
young people speculate as to whether his eyes were 
brown or blue, and he hoped quite passionately that his 


grave would have about it an air of many, many years 
ago. It seemed strange that out of g, row of Union sol- 
diers two or three made him think of dead loves and 
dead lovers, when they were exactly Eke the rest, even 
to the yellowish moss. 

Long after midnight the towers and spires of Prince- 
ton were visible, with here and there a late-burning 
light and suddenly out of the clear darkness the sound 
of bells. As an endless dream it went on; the spirit of 
the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen 
youth from the muddled, unchastened world, still fed 
romantically on the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams 
of dead statesmen and poets. Here was a new genera- 
tion, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, 
through a revery of long days and nights; destined finally 
to go out into that dirty gray turmoil to follow love and 
pride; a new generation dedicated more than the last 
to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; 
grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all 
faiths in man shaken. . . . 

Amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for him- 
self art, politics, religion, whatever his medium should 
be, he knew he was safe now, free from all hysteria 
he could accept what was acceptable, roam, grow, rebel, 
sleep deep through many nights. . . . 

There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were 
still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the re- 
gret for his lost youth yet the waters of disillusion had 
left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of 
life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized 
dreams. But oh, Rosalind ! Rosalind ! , N . . 

"It's all a poor substitute at best," he said sadly. 

And he could not tell why the struggle was worth 


while, why he had determined to use to the utmost 
himself and his heritage from the personalities he had 
passed. . . . 

He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant 

"I know myself," he cried, "but that is all."