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"
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
gave
.
"
No
,
"
Amory
answered
.
"
I
was
referring
to
Bernard
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
companion
proved
to
be
none
other
than
"
that
awful
highbrow
,
Thomas
Parke
D'Invilliers
,
"
who
signed
the
passionate
love-poems
in
the
Lit
.
He
was
,
perhaps
,
nineteen
,
with
stooped
shoulders
,
pale
blue
eyes
,
and
,
as
Amory
could
tell
from
his
general
appearance
,
without
much
conception
of
social
competition
and
such
phenomena
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
did
n't
seem
to
be
noticing
,
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
Philistines
and
one
part
deadly
grinds
,
and
to
find
a
person
who
could
mention
Keats
without
stammering
,
yet
evidently
washed
his
hands
,
was
rather
a
treat
.
"
Ever
read
any
Oscar
Wilde
?
"
he
asked
.
"
No
.
Who
wrote
it
?
"
