.

The Egotist Considers.
"Ouch! Let me go!" He dropped his arms to his sides.
"What's the matter ?" "Your shirt stud--it hurt me--look!" She was looking down at her neck, where a little blue spot about the size of a pea marred its pallor.
"Oh, Isabelle," he reproached himself, "I'm a goopher.

Really, I'm sorry--I shouldn't have held you so close." She looked up impatiently.
"Oh, Amory, of course you couldn't help it, and it didn't hurt much; but what _are_ we going to do about it ?" "_Do_ about it ?" he asked.

"Oh--that spot; it'll disappear in a second." "It isn't," she said, after a moment of concentrated gazing, "it's still there--and it looks like Old Nick--oh, Amory, what'll we do! It's _just_ the height of your shoulder." "Massage it," he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination to laugh.
She rubbed it delicately with the tips of her fingers, and then a tear gathered in the corner of her eye, and slid down her cheek.
"Oh, Amory," she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic face, "I'll just make my whole neck _flame_ if I rub it.

What'll I do ?" A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn't resist repeating it aloud.
"All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand." She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like ice.
"You're not very sympathetic." Amory mistook her meaning.
"Isabelle, darling, I think it'll--" "Don't touch me!" she cried.