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"
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
.
"
"
Good
night
.
"
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
.
When
he
awoke
,
it
was
with
a
glad
flood
of
consciousness
.
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
wondered
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
:
