house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped.

"That _damn_ old fool!" he cried wildly. "As if I didn't _know!_"

He decided, however, that this was a good excuse not to go back to study
hall that night, so, comfortably couched up in his room, he munched
Nabiscos and finished "The White Company."

* * * *

INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL

There was a bright star in February. New York burst upon him on
Washington's Birthday with the brilliance of a long-anticipated event.
His glimpse of it as a vivid whiteness against a deep-blue sky had left a
picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities in the Arabian Nights;
but this time he saw it by electric light, and romance gleamed from the
chariot-race sign on Broadway and from the women's eyes at the Astor,
where he and young Paskert from St. Regis' had dinner. When they walked
down the aisle of the theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging and
discord of untuned violins and the sensuous, heavy fragrance of paint and
powder, he moved in a sphere of epicurean delight. Everything enchanted
him. The play was "The Little Millionaire," with George M. Cohan,
and there was one stunning young brunette who made him sit with brimming
eyes in the ecstasy of watching her dance.

"Oh--you--wonderful girl,
What a wonderful girl you are--"

sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately.