, he let the first term go
by between an envy of the embryo successes and a puzzled fretting with
Kerry as to why they were not accepted immediately among the elite of
the class.

Many afternoons they lounged in the windows of 12 Univee and watched
the class pass to and from Commons, noting satellites already attaching
themselves to the more prominent, watching the lonely grind with his
hurried step and downcast eye, envying the happy security of the big
school groups.

"We're the damned middle class, that's what!" he complained to Kerry one
day as he lay stretched out on the sofa, consuming a family of Fatimas
with contemplative precision.

"Well, why not? We came to Princeton so we could feel that way toward
the small colleges--have it on 'em, more self-confidence, dress better,
cut a swathe--"

"Oh, it isn't that I mind the glittering caste system," admitted Amory.
"I like having a bunch of hot cats on top, but gosh, Kerry, I've got to
be one of them."

"But just now, Amory, you're only a sweaty bourgeois."

Amory lay for a moment without speaking.

"I won't be--long," he said finally. "But I hate to get anywhere by
working for it. I'll show the marks, don't you know."

"Honorable scars." Kerry craned his neck suddenly at the street.
"There's Langueduc, if you want to see what he looks like--and Humbird
just behind."

Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows.

"Oh," he said, scrutinizing these worthies, "Humbird looks like a
knock-out, but this Langueduc--he's the rugged type, isn't he? I
distrust that sort. All diamonds look big in the rough."

"Well," said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, "you're a literary
genius. It's up to you."

"I wonder"--Amory paused--"if I could be. I honestly think so sometimes.
That sounds like the devil, and I wouldn't say it to anybody except
you."

"Well--go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy
D'Invilliers in the Lit."

Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table.

"Read his latest effort?"

"Never miss 'em. They're rare."

Amory glanced through the issue.

"Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't he?"

"Yeah."

"Listen to this! My God!

"'A serving lady speaks:
Black velvet trails its folds over the day,
White tapers, prisoned in their silver frames,
Wave their thin flames like shadows in the wind,
Pia, Pompia, come--come away--'

"Now, what the devil does that mean?"