mother in her father's private car, from Coronado, where his mother
became so bored that she had a nervous breakdown in a fashionable hotel,
down to Mexico City, where she took a mild, almost epidemic consumption.
This trouble pleased her, and later she made use of it as an intrinsic
part of her atmosphere--especially after several astounding bracers.

So, while more or less fortunate little rich boys were defying
governesses on the beach at Newport, or being spanked or tutored or read
to from "Do and Dare," or "Frank on the Mississippi," Amory was biting
acquiescent bell-boys in the Waldorf, outgrowing a natural repugnance to
chamber music and symphonies, and deriving a highly specialized education
from his mother.

"Amory."

"Yes, Beatrice." (Such a quaint name for his mother; she encouraged it.)

"Dear, don't _think_ of getting out of bed yet. I've always suspected
that early rising in early life makes one nervous. Clothilde is having
your breakfast brought up."

"All right."

"I am feeling very old to-day, Amory," she would sigh, her face a rare
cameo of pathos, her voice exquisitely modulated, her hands as facile
as Bernhardt's. "My nerves are on edge--on edge. We must leave this
terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for sunshine."

Amory's penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled hair at his
mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about her.