Good night." "Good night." They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his room he thought he caught just the faintest cloud of discontent in her face.
He lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much he cared--how much of his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity--whether he was, after all, temperamentally unfitted for romance.
When he awoke, it was with a glad flood of consciousness.

The early wind stirred the chintz curtains at the windows and he was idly puzzled not to be in his room at Princeton with his school football picture over the bureau and the Triangle Club on the wall opposite.

Then the grandfather's clock in the hall outside struck eight, and the memory of the night before came to him.

He was out of bed, dressing, like the wind; he must get out of the house before he saw Isabelle.

What had seemed a melancholy happening, now seemed a tiresome anticlimax.