Villa Helada, el malvado hechizo de las Islas Nórdicas (Spanish Edition)

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Kerry, collect the small change. They sauntered leisurely toward the door, pursued in a moment by the suspicious Ganymede. 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. 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. Let me present Messrs. Connage, Sloane, Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine. Poor creature; Amory supposed she had never before been noticed in her life possibly she was half-witted. While she accompanied them Kerry had invited her to supper she said nothing which could discountenance such a belief. Amory was content to sit and watch the by-play, thinking 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 Spanish bobbed: Scott Fitzgerald 79 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. Alec and Kerry were the life of it, but not quite the centre.

Somehow the quiet Humbird, and Sloane, with his impatient superciliousness, 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 intangibly 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 righteousness. He was not a snob, though he knew only half his class. Servants worshipped him, and treated him like a god.

He seemed the eternal example of what the upper class tries to be. 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 clubs. 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 Spanish aristocrat: They had suppered 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, having 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 quickdevelopment store. The photographer probably has them yet at least, they never called for them. The weather was perfect, and Spanish annoyance: Scott Fitzgerald 81 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 multitude 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.

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. All through the spring Amory had kept up an intermittent correspondence with Isabelle Borgi, punctuated by violent squabbles and chiefly enlivened by his attempts to find new words for love. He discovered Isabelle to be discreetly Spanish allurements: I mean the future, you know. I may not come back next year.

I wish my girl lived here. But marry not a chance. Scott Fitzgerald 83 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 rapturous letters. Your last letter came and it was wonderful!

Be cure and be able to come to the prom. I often think over what you said on that night and wonder how much you meant. For I am through with everything. 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 Spanish afraid: Then down deserted Prospect and along McCosh with song everywhere around them, up to the hot joviality of Nassau Street.

Cabalgue, pret de ride. Princeton invariably gives the thoughtful man a social sense. I might have been a pretty fair poet. You chose to come to an Eastern college. They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to ride back. Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle! By noon the bright-costumed alumni crowded the streets with their bands and choruses, and in the tents there was great reunion under the orange-and-black banners that curled and strained in the wind.

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. 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 night birds 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 Scott Fitzgerald 87 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: Under the full light of a roadside arc-light lay a form, face downward in a widening circle of blood. Amory thought of the back of that head that hair— that hair The car turned over. Sloane, with his shoulder punctured, was on another lounge.

He was half delirious, and kept calling something about a chemistry lecture at 8: 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 Spanish calling: 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 Amory was reminded of a cat that had lain horribly mangled in some alley of his childhood. 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. Isabelle 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 clubs 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 club, while Isabelle and Amory looked at each other Spanish alley: Scott Fitzgerald 89 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 become intent on far corners of the hall, for Kaye, anxious and perspiring, appears elbowing through the crowd in search of familiar faces.

For a delicious hour that passed too soon they glided the silent roads about Princeton and talked from the surface of their hearts in shy excitement.

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Amory felt strangely ingenuous and made no attempt to kiss 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. As he put in his studs he realized that he was enjoying life as he would probably never enjoy it again.

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 Oxford might have been a bigger field. 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. 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 egotism. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion. He became aware that he had not an ounce of real affection for Isabelle, 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.

It would interfere vaguely with his idea of himself as a conqueror. Perhaps she suspected this. At any rate, Amory watched the night that should have been the consummation of romance glide by with great moths overhead and the heavy fragrance of roadside gardens, but without those broken words, those little sighs He had told her a lot of things. You just sat and watched my eyes. He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs.

Scott Fitzgerald 95 They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his room he thought he caught just the faintest 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.

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. 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!

There was a knock at the door. He took a sombre satisfaction in thinking that perhaps all along she had been nothing except what he had read Spanish anticlimax: Yet that was what she had objected to in him; and Amory was suddenly tired of thinking, thinking! 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.

This Side of Paradise (Webster's Spanish Thesaurus Edition)

Rooney, pander to the dull, conducted the class and smoked innumerable Pall Malls as he drew diagrams and worked equations from six in the morning until midnight. Scott Fitzgerald 97 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: McDowell that Amory very nearly pushed him out of the open window when he said this Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that filled the room would come the inevitable helpless cry: He found it impossible to study conic sections; something in their calm and tantalizing respectability breathing defiantly through Mr.

Somehow, with the defection of Isabelle the idea of undergraduate success had loosed its grasp on his imagination, and he contemplated a possible failure to pass off his condition with equanimity, even though it would arbitrarily mean his removal from the Princetonian board and the slaughter 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.

Your stock will go down like an elevator at the club and on the campus. Why rub it in? Amory returned the gaze pointedly. He was, of course, immediately sorry for what he had lost.

Villa Helada, el malvado hechizo de las Islas Nórdicas (Spanish Edition)

His philosophy of success had tumbled down upon him, and he looked for the reasons. My own idleness was quite in accord with my system, but the luck broke. Get a better one quick, or just bum around for two more years as a has-been? If his reactions to his environment could be tabulated, the chart would have appeared like this, beginning with his earliest years: Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis.

That had been his nearest approach to success through conformity. The fundamental Amory, idle, imaginative, rebellious, had been nearly snowed under. He had conformed, he had succeeded, but as his imagination was neither satisfied nor grasped by his own success, he had listlessly, half-accidentally chucked the whole thing and become again: The incongruity of death with either the beauties of Lake Geneva or with his Spanish appeared: 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 distinguished , or with his hands clasped behind his head, a more pagan and Byronic attitude.

Barton, of Barton and Krogman, their lawyers, and himself, that took place several days after the funeral. The total expenditure that year had come to something over one hundred and ten 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 Amory was shocked to discover the decrease in the number of bond holdings and the great drop in the income.

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 Spanish advocated: About the exact state of things Mr. Barton was quite vague and confused. There had been recent investments, 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. In fact, Beatrice wrote that she was putting the money into railroad and street-car bonds as fast as she could conveniently transfer it.

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. You must go into finance, Amory. You start as a messenger or a teller, I believe, and from that you go up almost indefinitely. Before I get any farther I want to discuss something.

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Bispam, an over cordial 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. 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 Spanish bonds: Scott Fitzgerald 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 Christmas 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. 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 everything if we are not too extravagant. Monsignor 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 want to hear the whole thing. Anyways, mother would hate not having me graduate. Kerry Holiday wants me to go over with him and join the Lafayette Esquadrille. 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 Spanish accomplish: I can do the one hundred things beyond the next thing, but I stub my toe on that, just as you stubbed your toe on mathematics this fall. It never seems the sort of thing I should do. You brushed three or four ornaments down, and, in a fit of pique, knocked off the rest of them.

The thing now is to collect some new ones, and the farther you look ahead in the collecting the better. But remember, do the next thing! It was a pose, I guess. 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 character you will have to take for granted in yourself, though you must be careful in confessing them to others. You are unsentimental, almost incapable of affection, astute without being cunning and vain without being proud. An idealization of some such a man as Leonardo da Vinci would be a more valuable beacon to you at present.

Do write me soon. Henry, John Fox, Jr. The undergraduate body itself was rather more interesting that year than had been the entirely Philistine Princeton of two years before. Things had livened surprisingly, though at the sacrifice of much of the spontaneous charm of freshman year. In the old Princeton they would never have discovered Tanaduke Wylie. At least so Tom and Amory took him.

So they surrendered Tanaduke to the futurists, deciding that he and his flaming ties would do better there. Scott Fitzgerald Amory rather scornfully avoided the popular professors who dispensed easy epigrams and thimblefuls of Chartreuse to groups of admirers every night. Well, here we are, your hundred sheep, Tune up, play on, pour forth Still, still I meet you here and there A radical comes down and shocks The atheistic orthodox? 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 Scott Fitzgerald That down the noisy aisle-ways beat Forget on narrow-minded earth The Mighty Yawn that gave you birth.

The evening was so very young that they felt ridiculous with surplus energy, and burst into the cafi like Dionysian revellers. 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. If you ask me, I want a double Daiquiri. 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. Their party was scheduled to be one of the harmless kind. But strange things are prepared even in the dead of night, and the unusual, which lurks least in the cafi, home of the prosaic and inevitable, 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.

Sloane had been drinking consecutively and was in a state of unsteady exhilaration, 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 Scott Fitzgerald watching their party intently. Amory turned to Fred, who was just sitting down. 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. 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 wondered if it sounded priggish. 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 cafi, and with his jump of astonishment the glass fell from his uplifted hand.

There the man half sat, half leaned against a pile of pillows on the corner divan. 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 expression.

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 It was like weakness in a good woman, or blood on satin; one of those terrible incongruities that shake little things in the back of the brain. He wore no shoes, but, instead, a sort of half Spanish astonishment: Scott Fitzgerald 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 The man regarded Amory quizzically Then the human voices fell faintly on his ear: As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the sickly electric light of the paved hall.

Ten, fifteen steps away sounded the footsteps. They were like a slow dripping, with just the slightest insistence in their fall. 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. Was every one followed in the moonlight? 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 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 the 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 The steps ahead stopped, and he could hear them shift slightly with a continuous motion, like waves around a dock. 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 Spanish blackness: Scott Fitzgerald everything that had ever preceded it in his life. It did not muddle him. 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.

He remembered calling aloud: Oh, send some one stupid! 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 instinct that called, just the pile on pile of inherent tradition or some wild prayer from way over the night.

Then something clanged like a low gong struck at a distance, 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 the 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. 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. 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. Old remorse getting you? His knees were shaking under him, and he knew that if he stayed another minute on this street he would keel over Spanish assimilate: Scott Fitzgerald where he stood. 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 forehead 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 distinguish 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. 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 magazine. He found himself reading the same paragraphs over and over, so he abandoned this attempt and leaning over wearily pressed his hot forehead against the damp window-pane.

Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting a cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing him. Amory threw his coat and hat on the floor, loosened his collar, and took a Wells novel at random from the shelf. 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. He saw nothing but the dark window-pane. What face did you just see? 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 questioned so long in secret.

It was distinctly through the Spanish accident: Amory, through Kerry, had had a vague drifting acquaintance with him, but not until January of senior year did their friendship commence. Or another ship sunk? About one-third of the junior class are going to resign from their clubs.

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