was mother to his own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the grace of a
fortunate woman of thirty.

"Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a strange, weird time
after I left you."

"Did you, Beatrice?"

"When I had my last breakdown"--she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant feat.

"The doctors told me"--her voice sang on a confidential note--"that if
any man alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he would have
been physically _shattered_, my dear, and in his _grave_--long in his
grave."

Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker.

"Yes," continued Beatrice tragically, "I had dreams--wonderful visions."
She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. "I saw bronze rivers
lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air,
parti-colored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music and
the flare of barbaric trumpets--what?"

Amory had snickered.

"What, Amory?"

"I said go on, Beatrice."

"That was all--it merely recurred and recurred--gardens that flaunted