A Kiss for Amory.
His lip curled when he read it.
“I am going to have a bobbing party, ” it said, “on Thursday, December the seventeenth, at five o’clock, and I would like it very much if you could come. Yours truly ,
R.S.V.P.
Myra St. Claire .”
He had been two months in Minneapolis, and his chief struggle had been the concealing from “the other guys at school” how particularly superior he felt himself to be, yet this conviction was built upon shifting sands. He had shown off one day in French class (he was in senior French class) to the utter confusion of Mr. Reardon, whose accent Amory damned contemptuously, and to the delight of the class. Mr. Reardon, who had spent several weeks in Paris ten years before, took his revenge on the verbs, whenever he had his book open. But another ti
