Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book for a
moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily:

"Ha! Great stuff!"

The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial
embarrassment.

"Are you referring to your bacon buns?" His cracked, kindly voice
went well with the large spectacles and the impression of a voluminous
keenness that he gave.

"No," Amory answered. "I was referring to Bernard Shaw." He turned the
book around in explanation.

"I've never read any Shaw. I've always meant to." The boy paused and
then continued: "Did you ever read Stephen Phillips, or do you like
poetry?"

"Yes, indeed," Amory affirmed eagerly. "I've never read much of Phillips,
though." (He had never heard of any Phillips except the late David
Graham.)

"It's pretty fair, I think. Of course he's a Victorian." They sallied
into a discussion of poetry, in the course of which they introduced
themselves, and Amory's companion proved to be none other than "that
awful highbrow, Thomas Parke D'Invilliers," who signed the passionate
love-poems in the Lit. He was, perhaps, nineteen, with stooped shoulders,
pale blue eyes, and, as Amory could tell from his general appearance,