turn all his clever jibes against Catholics into even cleverer innuendoes
against Episcopalians. He was intensely ritualistic, startlingly
dramatic, loved the idea of God enough to be a celibate, and rather liked
his neighbor.

Children adored him because he was like a child; youth revelled in his
company because he was still a youth, and couldn't be shocked. In the
proper land and century he might have been a Richelieu--at present he
was a very moral, very religious (if not particularly pious) clergyman,
making a great mystery about pulling rusty wires, and appreciating life
to the fullest, if not entirely enjoying it.

He and Amory took to each other at first sight--the jovial, impressive
prelate who could dazzle an embassy ball, and the green-eyed, intent
youth, in his first long trousers, accepted in their own minds a relation
of father and son within a half-hour's conversation.

"My dear boy, I've been waiting to see you for years. Take a big chair
and we'll have a chat."

"I've just come from school--St. Regis's, you know."

"So your mother says--a remarkable woman; have a cigarette--I'm sure you
smoke. Well, if you're like me, you loathe all science and mathematics--"

Amory nodded vehemently.

"Hate 'em all. Like English and history."

"Of course. You'll hate school for a while, too, but I'm glad you're