"Amory."

"Oh, _yes_."

"I want you to take a red-hot bath as hot as you can bear it, and just
relax your nerves. You can read in the tub if you wish."

She fed him sections of the "Fetes Galantes" before he was ten; at eleven
he could talk glibly, if rather reminiscently, of Brahms and Mozart and
Beethoven. One afternoon, when left alone in the hotel at Hot Springs,
he sampled his mother's apricot cordial, and as the taste pleased him,
he became quite tipsy. This was fun for a while, but he essayed a
cigarette in his exaltation, and succumbed to a vulgar, plebeian
reaction. Though this incident horrified Beatrice, it also secretly
amused her and became part of what in a later generation would have been
termed her "line."

"This son of mine," he heard her tell a room full of awestruck, admiring
women one day, "is entirely sophisticated and quite charming--but
delicate--we're all delicate; _here_, you know." Her hand was radiantly
outlined against her beautiful bosom; then sinking her voice to a whisper,
she told them of the apricot cordial. They rejoiced, for she was a brave
raconteuse, but many were the keys turned in sideboard locks that night
against the possible defection of little Bobby or Barbara. . . .

These domestic pilgrimages were invariably in state; two maids, the
private car, or Mr. Blaine when available, and very often a physician.
When Amory had the whooping-cough four disgusted specialists glared at
each other hunched around his bed; when he took scarlet fever the number