e 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 rapturous letters.

... Oh it's so hard to write you what I really _feel_ 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
anyone but you--but you see I _thought_ you were fickle the first
time I saw you and you are so popular and everthing that I can't
imagine you really liking me _best_.

Oh, Isabelle, dear--it's a wonderful night. Somebody is playing
"Love Moon" on a mandolin far across the campus, and the music
seems to bring you into the window. Now he's playing "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_ Isabelle (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 ete