This meant nothing to him, his metrical education having been confined to such Sunday classics as "Come into the Garden, Maude," and what morsels of Shakespeare and Milton had been recently forced upon him.
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.