tendencies to ennui. When he carried it into Commons, to the amazement
of the others at table, Amory became furiously embarrassed, and after
that made epigrams only before D'Invilliers or a convenient mirror.

One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and Lord Dunsany's poems
to the music of Kerry's graphophone.

"Chant!" cried Tom. "Don't recite! Chant!"

Amory, who was performing, looked annoyed, and claimed that he needed a
record with less piano in it. Kerry thereupon rolled on the floor in
stifled laughter.

"Put on 'Hearts and Flowers'!" he howled. "Oh, my Lord, I'm going to
cast a kitten."

"Shut off the damn graphophone," Amory cried, rather red in the face.
"I'm not giving an exhibition."

In the meanwhile Amory delicately kept trying to awaken a sense of the
social system in D'Invilliers, for he knew that this poet was really more
conventional than he, and needed merely watered hair, a smaller range of
conversation, and a darker brown hat to become quite regular. But the
liturgy of Livingstone collars and dark ties fell on heedless ears;
in fact D'Invilliers faintly resented his efforts; so Amory confined
himself to calls once a week, and brought him occasionally to 12 Univee.
This caused mild titters among the other freshmen, who called them
"Doctor Johnson and Boswell."

Alec Connage, another frequent visitor, liked him in a vague way, but was