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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——”

“You don’t understand——”

“Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “I do, because you’re always talking about yourself and I used to like it; now I don’t.”

“Have I to-night?”

“That’s just the point,” insisted Isabelle. “You got all upset to-night. You just sat and watched my eyes. Besides, I have to think all the time I’m talking to you—you’re so critical.”

“I make you think, do I?” Amory repeated with a touch of vanity.

“You’re a nervous strain”—this emphatically—“and when you analyze every little emotion and instinct I just don’t have ’em.”

“I know.” Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly.

“Let’s go.” She stood up.