rugged type, isn't he? I distrust that sort. All diamonds look big in the rough."
"Well," said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, "you're a literary genius. It's up to you."
"I wonder"—Amory paused—"if I could be. I honestly think so sometimes. That sounds like the devil, and I wouldn't say it to anybody except you."
"Well—go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy D'Invilliers in the Litt."
Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table.
"Read his latest effort?"
"Never miss 'em. They're rare."
Amory glanced through the issue.
"Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't he?"
"Yeah."
"Listen to this! My God!
Black velvet trails its folds over the day,
White tapers, prisoned in their silver frames,
Wave their thin flames like shadows in the wind,
Pia, Pompia, come—come away———'
"Now, what the devil does that mean?"
"It's a pantry scene."
She's laid upon her bed, on the white sheets,
Her hands pressed on her smooth bust like a saint,
Bella Cumizza, come into the light!'
"My gosh, Kerry, what in hell is it all about? I swear I don't get him at all, and I'm a literary bird myself."
"It's pretty tricky," said Kerry, "only you've got
