They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced that he was to meet his brother for dinner at six.
“Come along and have a bite with us.”
“All right.”
At the Kenilworth Amory met Burne Holiday—he of the gray eyes was Kerry—and during a limpid meal of thin soup and anaemic vegetables they stared at the other freshmen, who sat either in small groups looking very ill at ease, or in large groups seeming very much at home.
“I hear Commons is pretty bad,” said Amory.
“That’s the rumor. But you’ve got to eat there—or pay anyways.”
“Crime!”
“Imposition!”
“Oh, at Princeton you’ve got to swallow everything the first year. It’s like a damned prep school.”
Amory agreed.
“Lot of pep, though,” he insisted. “I wouldn’t have gone to Yale for a million.”
“Me either.”
“You going out for anything?” inquired Amory of the elder brother.
“Not me—Burne here is going out for the Prince—the Daily Princetonian, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You going out for anything?”
“Why—yes. I’m going to take a whack at freshman football.”
“Play at St. Regis’s?”
“Some,” admitted Amory depreciatingly, “but I’m getting so damned thin.”
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