He held that most New Yorkers were narrow-minded in this respect, and he did not intend to be. New York ways of doing things were good enough for him, because they were the best, but he wanted to see how other Americans looked at things; and this showed a generous spirit.
On a previous trip he had visited a portion of the Western section of his country, and had brought back several new ideas. For instance, he was pleasantly surprised to meet girls with the same innate ideas that he had supposed were the exclusive possession of his friends at home. That was broadening. Also he had it impressed upon him that young women living in little towns he had never heard of before had characteristics, not necessarily innate, which were calculated to make very young men realize that even members of college dance committees have a thing or two to learn. Which was still more broadening.
And now he was in Virginia, surrounded by much dazzling full-pulsed Southern loveliness. He was meeting people that had been brought up to consider themselves the aristocracy of the American side of the world, and they had been cherishing this idea for generations before New York was more than a trading-post of miserly, Indian-cheating Dutchmen. They had never heard of the Lawrences of New York and were rather sorry for anyone that had to live there. And this was broadening. This was not to be about the Glee Club trip, nor about what Lawrence would have done if he had not gone, but what happened afterward, and if you read this story you may skip to here: Lawrence lay on the divan.
He put his hands back of his head and tried to tell himself how sick he was of teas and club receptions and convivial old grads. and applause and dances and chicken-salad and girls. Cinders were in his hair. What he wanted most in all the world was, first, someone to carry him to a Turkish bath, second, someone to dress him in his campus clothes, and third, Billy Nolan to put an arm around and call names.
But this reactional feeling he knew was inevitable, and he took it, as he did his sensation of dirtiness and indigestion, as part of the game. There was something else to make him fidget and frown on the divan.
Lawrence had come back to the slushy old sunshiny campus a very different fellow from the one that used to climb the stone steps from the station, but he had had a month in which to become accustomed to it. Besides, that was nothing to be sour about. He was very well pleased with being a different sort of a fellow, and had made up his mind to remain so. In fact, all during the trip he had been thinking that he could put in a peaceful, comfortable time now for the rest of his life, if it were not for one thing.
And as he started across the campus with a roll of corduroys under his arm, and the intention of taking a bath at the club, the very first thing he saw was that One Thing.
There was a "Hunt's Discourse" under his arm, and he was running to reach his seat before the bell stopped ringing, like any other freshman. But he was different from every other freshman in the world, to Lawrence.
This boy, like some of every freshman class that ever cheered itself hoarse, was beginning to do things his father had not sent him to college for. And the senior had an idea that his own example was what had started the boy; and this, when you stop to think of it, was extremely conceited in him. He thought he could make the freshman stop, and this, when you stop to think of it, was a hasty conclusion.
He thought about it during the time occupied in splashing and spluttering at the club, and most of the time that he was shivering and whistling and putting on his ugliest sweater and oldest corduroys and most disreputable slouch hat, and his brown shooting-coat with quail blood on it. He even thought of it several times while his hands were deep down in his pockets and his shoulders were slouched forward and a pipe was in his mouth and an arm was around Jim Linton and they were floating about the campus calling hello to everybody that was back.