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Spires and Gargoyles
Theydidn’tseemtobenoticing,sohelethimselfgo,discussedbooksbythedozens—bookshehadread,readabout,bookshehadneverheardof,rattlingofflistsoftitleswiththefacilityofaBrentano’sclerk.D’Invillierswaspartiallytakeninandwhollydelighted.Inagood-naturedwayhehadalmostdecidedthatPrincetonwasonepartdeadlyPhilistinesandonepartdeadlygrinds,andtofindapersonwhocouldmentionKeatswithoutstammering,yetevidentlywashedhishands,wasratheratreat.
"EverreadanyOscarWilde?"heasked.
"No.Whowroteit?"
"It’saman—don’tyouknow?"
"Oh,surely."AfaintchordwasstruckinAmory’smemory."Wasn’tthecomicopera,’Patience,’writtenabouthim?"
"Yes,that’sthefella.I’vejustfinishedabookofhis,’ThePictureofDorianGray,’andIcertainlywishyou’dreadit.You’dlikeit.Youcanborrowitifyouwantto."
"Why,I’dlikeitalot—thanks."
"Don’tyouwanttocomeuptotheroom?I’vegotafewotherbooks."
Amoryhesitated,glancedattheSt.Paul’sgroup—oneofthemwasthemagnificent,exquisiteHumbird—andheconsideredhowdeterminatetheadditionofthisfriendwouldbe.Henevergottothestageofmakingthemandgettingridofthem—hewasnothardenoughforthat—sohemeasuredThomasParkeD’Invilliers’undoubtedattractionsandvalueagainstthemenaceofcoldeyesbehindtortoise-rimmedspectaclesthathefanciedglaredfromthenexttable.
"Yes,I’llgo."
