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           "Youaretall—butyou’restillveryhandsome—you’veskippedtheawkwardage,oristhatsixteen;perhapsit’sfourteenorfifteen;Icanneverremember;butyou’veskippedit."

           "Don’tembarrassme,"murmuredAmory.

           "But,mydearboy,whatoddclothes!Theylookasiftheywereaset—don’tthey?Isyourunderwearpurple,too?"

           Amorygruntedimpolitely.

           "YoumustgotoBrooks’andgetsomereallynicesuits.Oh,we’llhaveatalkto-nightorperhapsto-morrownight.Iwanttotellyouaboutyourheart—you’veprobablybeenneglectingyourheart—andyoudon’tknow."

           Amorythoughthowsuperficialwastherecentoverlayofhisowngeneration.Asidefromaminuteshyness,hefeltthattheoldcynicalkinshipwithhismotherhadnotbeenonebitbroken.Yetforthefirstfewdayshewanderedaboutthegardensandalongtheshoreinastateofsuperloneliness,findingalethargiccontentinsmoking"Bull"atthegaragewithoneofthechauffeurs.

           Thesixtyacresoftheestateweredottedwitholdandnewsummerhousesandmanyfountainsandwhitebenchesthatcamesuddenlyintosightfromfoliage-hunghiding-places;therewasagreatandconstantlyincreasingfamilyofwhitecatsthatprowledthemanyflower-bedsandweresilhouettedsuddenlyatnightagainstthedarkeningtrees.ItwasononeoftheshadowypathsthatBeatriceatlastcapturedAmory,afterMr.Blainehad,asusual,retiredfortheeveningtohisprivatelibrary.Afterreprovinghimforavoidingher,shetookhimforalongtete-a-teteinthemoonlight.