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           So,whilemoreorlessfortunatelittlerichboysweredefyinggovernessesonthebeachatNewport,orbeingspankedortutoredorreadtofrom"DoandDare,"or"FrankontheMississippi,"Amorywasbitingacquiescentbell-boysintheWaldorf,outgrowinganaturalrepugnancetochambermusicandsymphonies,andderivingahighlyspecializededucationfromhismother.

           "Amory."

           "Yes,Beatrice."(Suchaquaintnameforhismother;sheencouragedit.)

           "Dear,don’tthinkofgettingoutofbedyet.I’vealwayssuspectedthatearlyrisinginearlylifemakesonenervous.Clothildeishavingyourbreakfastbroughtup."

           "Allright."

           "Iamfeelingveryoldto-day,Amory,"shewouldsigh,herfaceararecameoofpathos,hervoiceexquisitelymodulated,herhandsasfacileasBernhardt’s."Mynervesareonedge—onedge.Wemustleavethisterrifyingplaceto-morrowandgosearchingforsunshine."

           Amory’spenetratinggreeneyeswouldlookoutthroughtangledhairathismother.Evenatthisagehehadnoillusionsabouther.

           "Amory."

           "Oh,yes."

           "Iwantyoutotakeared-hotbathashotasyoucanbearit,andjustrelaxyournerves.Youcanreadinthetubifyouwish."

           Shefedhimsectionsofthe"FetesGalantes"beforehewasten;atelevenhecouldtalkglibly,ifratherreminiscently,ofBrahmsandMozartandBeethoven.Oneafternoon,whenleftaloneinthehotelatHotSprings,hesampledhismother’sapricotcordial,andasthetastepleasedhim,hebecamequitetipsy.