“I saw bronze rivers lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air, parti-colored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music and the flare of barbaric trumpets—what?”      

       Amory had snickered.     

       “What, Amory?”      

       “I said go on, Beatrice.”      

       “That was all—it merely recurred and recurred—gardens that flaunted coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that whirled and swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest moons—”      

       “Are you quite well now, Beatrice?”      

       “Quite well—as well as I will ever be. I am not understood, Amory. I know that can’t express it to you, Amory, but—I am not understood.”      

       Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his head gently against her shoulder.     

       “Poor Beatrice—poor Beatrice.”      

       “Tell me about you, Amory. Did you have two horrible years?”      

       Amory considered lying, and then decided against it.     

       “No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted myself to the bourgeoisie. I became conventional.” He surprised himself by saying that, and he pictured how Froggy would have gaped.     

       “Beatrice,” he said suddenly, “I want to go away to school. Everybody in Minneapolis is going to go away to school.”      

       Beatrice showed some alarm.     

       “But you’re only fifteen.”      

       “Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I want to, Beatrice.”      

       On Beatrice’s suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying:     

       “Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to, you can go to school.”      

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