He was, perhaps, nineteen, with stooped shoulders, pale blue eyes, and, as Amory could tell from his general appearance, 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.