“Now, Isabelle,” he interrupted, “you know it’s not that—even suppose it is. We’ve reached the stage where we either ought to kiss—or—or—nothing. It isn’t as if you were refusing on moral grounds.”
She hesitated.
“I really don’t know what to think about you,” she began, in a feeble, perverse attempt at conciliation. “You’re so funny.”
“How?”
“Well, I thought you had a lot of self-confidence and all that; remember you told me the other day that you could do anything you wanted, or get anything you wanted?”
Amory flushed. He had told her a lot of things.
“Yes.”
“Well, you didn’t seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe you’re just plain conceited.”
“No, I’m not,” he hesitated. “At Princeton—”
“Oh, you and Princeton! You’d think that was the world, the way you talk! Perhaps you can write better than anybody else on your old Princetonian; maybe the freshmen do think you’re important—”