Oddly enough, they both placed D'Invilliers as among the possibilities, a guess that a year before the class would have gaped at.
All through the spring Amory had kept up an intermittent correspondence with Isabelle Borge, punctuated by violent squabbles and chiefly enlivened by his attempts to find new words for love.

He discovered Isabelle to be discreetly and aggravatingly unsentimental in letters, but he hoped against hope that she would prove not too exotic a bloom to fit the large spaces of spring as she had fitted the den in the Minnehaha Club.

During May he wrote thirty-page documents almost nightly, and sent them to her in bulky envelopes exteriorly labelled "Part I" and "Part II." "Oh, Alec, I believe I'm tired of college," he said sadly, as they walked the dusk together.
"I think I am, too, in a way." "All I'd like would be a little home in the country, some warm country, and a wife, and just enough to do to keep from rotting." "Me, too." "I'd like to quit." "What does your girl say ?" "Oh!" Amory gasped in horror.

"She wouldn't _think_ of marrying...

that is, not now.