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They
reached
the
sleeping
school
of
Lawrenceville
,
and
turned
to
ride
back
.
"
It
's
good
,
this
ride
,
is
n'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
Isabelle
!
"
"
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
bushes
they
passed
.
"
I
'll
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
do
n't
catch
the
subtle
things
like
's
ilver-snarling
trumpets
.
'
I
may
turn
out
an
intellectual
,
but
I
'll
never
write
anything
but
mediocre
poetry
.
"
They
rode
into
Princeton
as
the
sun
was
making
colored
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
choruses
,
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
.
UNDER
THE
ARC-LIGHT
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
.
