So he found "Dorian Gray" and the "Mystic and Somber Dolores" and the "Belle Dame sans Merci"; for a month was keen on naught else. The world became pale and interesting, and he tried hard to look at Princeton through the satiated eyes of Oscar Wilde and Swinburne--or "Fingal O'Flaherty" and "Algernon Charles," as he called them in precieuse jest. He read enormously every night--Shaw, Chesterton, Barrie, Pinero, Yeats, Synge, Ernest Dowson, Arthur Symons, Keats, Sudermann, Robert Hugh Benson, the Savoy Operas--just a heterogeneous mixture, for he suddenly discovered that he had read nothing for years.