without much conception of social competition and such phenomena of
absorbing interest. Still, he liked books, and it seemed forever since
Amory had met any one who did; if only that St. Paul's crowd at the
next table would not mistake _him_ for a bird, too, he would enjoy the
encounter tremendously. They didn't seem to be noticing, so he let
himself go, discussed books by the dozens--books he had read, read about,
books he had never heard of, rattling off lists of titles with the
facility of a Brentano's clerk. D'Invilliers was partially taken in
and wholly delighted. In a good-natured way he had almost decided that
Princeton was one part deadly Philistines and one part deadly grinds,
and to find a person who could mention Keats without stammering, yet
evidently washed his hands, was rather a treat.

"Ever read any Oscar Wilde?" he asked.

"No. Who wrote it?"

"It's a man--don't you know?"

"Oh, surely." A faint chord was struck in Amory's memory. "Wasn't the
comic opera, 'Patience,' written about him?"

"Yes, that's the fella. I've just finished a book of his, 'The Picture
of Dorian Gray,' and I certainly wish you'd read it. You'd like it.
You can borrow it if you want to."

"Why, I'd like it a lot--thanks."

"Don't you want to come up to the room? I've got a few other books."