It's just that I'm in love.

Oh, _dearest_ Isabelle (somehow I can't call you just Isabelle, and I'm afraid I'll come out with the "dearest" before your family this June), you've got to come to the prom, and then I'll come up to your house for a day and everything'll be perfect....
And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them infinitely charming, infinitely new.
***** June came and the days grew so hot and lazy that they could not worry even about exams, but spent dreamy evenings on the court of Cottage, talking of long subjects until the sweep of country toward Stony Brook became a blue haze and the lilacs were white around tennis-courts, and words gave way to silent cigarettes....

Then down deserted Prospect and along McCosh with song everywhere around them, up to the hot joviality of Nassau Street.
Tom D'Invilliers and Amory walked late in those days.

A gambling fever swept through the sophomore class and they bent over the bones till three o'clock many a sultry night.

After one session they came out of Sloane's room to find the dew fallen and the stars old in the sky.
"Let's borrow bicycles and take a ride," Amory suggested.
"All right.