"Ah!" he cried airily. "The honorable provost addresses me as Mr. Ladue. _Mr._ Ladue. And so I am to appear before the Board of Governors for the purpose of clearing myself--of what? I am accused of coming out of a house. After all, it is a very quiet, respectable-looking house, indeed, in a quiet street, rubbing elbows with other quiet, respectable-looking houses. Does it happen that the honorable provost and that other member of the governing body have seen more than the outside of that house? Do I appear before the Board of Governors? I do not. And do I send in my resignation like a good little boy? I think not. The honorable provost is a fool. I will write him a letter and tell him so." So saying, the professor--we may call him the professor for almost the last time--the professor went to his desk and wrote the letter. He was in just the mood to write such a letter and it is to be remembered that he dealt naturally in caustics. Consequently, the letter was an excellent letter; it was exactly what it was meant to be. It was a model of its kind. There is little doubt that it was a poor kind and that it was very unwise to send it. Having been written, it should have been burned--utterly destroyed. It would have served its purpose better. But the professor was in no mood to do what was merely wise. He was pleased with the letter, proud of it. He was so pleased with it that he read it over three times. Then he laughed and signed it. "That will, perhaps, make them sit up. It would give me some pleasure to be present when he reads it." The professor gazed out into the great tree, musing pleasantly. "No, it can't be done. It is a matter of regret that it cannot." He sealed the letter and went out, at once, to mail it. He was quite cheerful as he took his hat and his stick from the rack in the hall; so cheerful that Charlie, who happened to catch sight of him, was encouraged to hail him. He answered pleasantly, even buoyantly, so that Sally was sure that she had been right and that the letter which she had carried up had been important. The cheerfulness of the professor was spurious, but, such as it was, it lasted, unimpaired, until the letter was posted. The mail was just going out, and the postmaster, obliging as postmasters invariably are, held it long enough to slip in the letter to the provost. The professor saw it go; then doubts began to assail him, and his cheerfulness ebbed. He stood irresolute until he heard the train. It was useless to stand irresolute longer. It is always useless to stand irresolute for any length of time whatever. The professor knew that very well. With a quick compression of the lips, he turned homeward. He was no longer cheerful.