“Yes, sir,” Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people talk as if he were an admitted failure.     

       “But I’ve noticed,” continued the older man blindly, “that you’re not very popular with the boys.”      

       “No, sir.” Amory licked his lips.     

       “Ah—I thought you might not understand exactly what it was they—ah—objected to. I’m going to tell you, because I believe—ah—that when a boy knows his difficulties he’s better able to cope with them—to conform to what others expect of him.” He a-hemmed again with delicate reticence, and continued: “They seem to think that you’re—ah—rather too fresh—”      

       Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely controlling his voice when he spoke.     

       “I know—oh, don’t you s’pose I know.” His voice rose. “I know what they think; do you s’pose you have to tell me!” He paused.       “I’m—I’ve got to go back now—hope I’m not rude—”      

       He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked to his house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped.     

       “That damn old fool!” he cried wildly. “As if I didn’t know!”      

       He decided, however, that this was a good excuse not to go back to study hall that night, so, comfortably couched up in his room, he munched Nabiscos and finished “The White Company.”      

       INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL     

       There was a bright star in February. New York burst upon him on Washington’s Birthday with the brilliance of a long-anticipated event. His       glimpse of it as a vivid whiteness against a deep-blue sky had left a picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities in the Arabian Nights; but this time he saw it by electric light, and romance gleamed from the chariot-race sign on Broadway and from the women’s eyes at the Astor, where he and young Paskert from St. Regis’ had dinner. When they walked down the aisle of the theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging and discord of untuned violins and the sensuous, heavy fragrance of paint and powder, he moved in a sphere of epicurean delight. Everything enchanted him. The play was “The Little Millionaire,” with George M. Cohan, and there was 

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