Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a contemplation of the scenery. Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow.
“Oh, winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover,
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
“The full streams feed on flower of——”
“What’s the matter, Amory? Amory’s thinking about poetry, about the pretty birds and flowers. I can see it in his eye.”
“No, I’m not,” he lied. “I’m thinking about the Princetonian. I ought to make up to-night; but I can telephone back, I suppose.”
“Oh,” said Kerry respectfully, “these important men——”
Amory flushed and it
