We had planned to see the place in action, bustling with down vests and hockey sticks and sparkling in a December snow shower. The fires would be dancing in gloomy libraries, where weathered sages gathered to discuss Tennyson and sip sherry. Upstairs the husky captains of the guys' and girls' swimming teams would be making love frantically, faintly worrying about how to explain their absence to the coach. In front of the headmaster's residence two little children, a boy and girl indistinguishable from each other in their cordurov overalls and knit hats, would romp with an aging golden retriever named Mayflower.

In our first three months of college the guy who slept on the bunk above me shared my prepophilia. We both came from high-powered East-coast suburban public high schools. Some of our high school classmates had displayed transparent pretensions to "the life," but they never got much closer than the clothing, or maybe a convincing adulteration of the language. When we arrived here we determined independently, and after a while in cooperation, to get to the bottom of this business, to unearth the secrets of this preppy stuff.

Fate blessed us with two prime specimens for roommates--two fellows who not only completed a foursome of good friends, but who also possessed the knowledge of generations of Yankee elite. It was to their School that we outsiders decided to make our pilgrimage that December of our freshman year. It was there we would see the places described in late-night living room talks and pointed out on postcards and in alumni bulletins. Silent intruders, the two of us would taste the food that made these young men so sturdy and breathe the clean, cool air that had first tinged their cheeks a ruddy pink.

What we realized on the short drive from my roommate's house to the hill-top school in Newport, R.I., was that no one would be there. Most everyone was, no doubt, off for Christmas break as we were. Disappointed, and embarassed over our own stupidity, we decided to take a look anyway, having little else to do for the afternoon. Instead of snow, a chilling drizzle had fallen since morning, and we quickly became irritated when bad directions sent us circling back into town toward the seafood restaurants and little olde craft shoppes.

Halfway up the narrow road toward the campus we finally figured out where we were, and a little of our excitement returned. This was, after all, practically a homecoming for us; we had relived the days in the red-brick dormitories and grey-concrete gymnasium, had dissected relationships between class album pictures, and had witnessed over and over again the horror of missing last-second free throws again archrival Middlesex.

Rising high above the main building and disappearing into the overcast sky, the steeple of the school chapel kept silent watch as we parked the car in a small gravel lot protected by the leafless branches of several huge oak trees. The buildings were not large, but they were strong and old and they demanded respect. Stocky chimneys protruded at irregular intervals from the green-blue roofs, and the hard, wood doors were dark and wet from the rain.

The main cluster of building formed a long rectangle, which was set in the middle of a great field. About half a mile to the right the calm edge of the Atlantic Ocean rubbed against a thin strip of sand. The grass was strangely green, despite the season. On the far side of the chapel the vague outlines of athletic fields were etched into the ground, and in the distance, to the left of the science building, stood the tiny observatory, a traditional sanctuary for lovers, or so we had been told.

Inside the main building, we walked down long corridors, dimly lit by the grey light sifting in through high windows, toward classrooms and small studies. There was mahogany and cracked, reddish leather. The floor creaked grandly as we moved slowly around corners, fully expecting the current generation of the hereditary janitor class of the realm to leap out from a closet and drive us off with flailing push brooms. Every room seemed to have a fireplace, and we wondered what it would have been like to fall asleep in an over-stuffed armchair, Milton on your lap and a monogrammed tie around your neck. We were wearing Converse basketball sneakers. We were ashamed.

Someone was in the large student lounge so we entered to identify ourselves. This, it became clear, had not been necessary, for we had not been noticed. Bent over a large, ornately carved wooden table, a middle-aged man sorted through stacks of papers, referring every so often to an open ledger book filled with names and grades.

Yes, yes, of course he knew our roommates, and, no, no one would mind if we continued to nose around. Not only did he know our friends, but he wanted to find out just how they were doing--academics, social life. The one playing soccer? The other playing drums? (Quite a character, that bov.)

He wanted to know if any young men from the school had come to visit us to take a look at the Big H. Yes, in fact we had had as many as three at a time--our roommates were certainly doing their part. Well good, because from the looks of this batch of American history papers, a lot of folks would really need some inspiration to make the Ivy League, he noted with raised and perplexed eyebrows. Yes, we had just been remarking to ourselves what a beautiful place it was. No no, we had gone to public high school. Oh yes, quite different. No auto-mechanics shop for one thing. Yes indeed, he agreed, quite different.

Upon the urging of our host, we walked across a small stone courtyard to the chapel, leaving him to "Manifest Destiny and the American West." We found a winding staircase which led to a narrow balcony to the rear of the chilly room. Outside, the clouds had parted a bit and the sun brought several of the stained-glass New Testament parables to life. The smooth white marble railing we leaned against was cold and damp. For such a small place, it seemed capable of a magnificent silence.

We stood there, whispering for no particular reason, remembering the tales of this school we had heard and anticpating the ones we were sure to hear in the coming years. These were stories that never failed to prove the validity of the analysis we have head so often: "There you are, cut off from everything, acting out a certain type of behavior agreed upon by everyone. But you don't know you're wearing funny clothes because everyone is. You really don't have to concentrate very hard if you're really a prep."

The people who prayed once a week in that chapel don't think very hard about what it is that has captured their loyalty and branded them for life. They don't have to see the beauty in the harsh New England weather or the luxury of their libraries and playing fields. And to their own loss, many do not understand why they will spend so much of their adult lives trying to recapture that flawless sixth-form year. "It's downhill for a lot of people after prep school. There's a definite sense of loss," one of our roommates likes to observe.

But it would be a difficult thing to put out of your mind if it were yours for so long. Even from the outside, this little world can be enchanting.