The more he thought it over, the more nonsense it became, as all words turn to drivel on repetition; but chiefly he was amazed that even love could have wrought this change in him. In his distress he happened to think of Dean Swift. Had not that fierce satirist created a dialect of his own for his everlastingly mysterious love affairs? Eager for the comfort of fellowship in disgrace he hurried to the library and sought out the works of the Dean of St. Patrick's. And in the "Journal to Stella" he found what he sought--and more. Expressions of the most appalling coarseness alternated with the most insipid tendernesses. The old dean had a code of abbreviations: M.D. for "My dear," Ppt. for "Poppet," Pdfr. for "Poor dear foolish rogue," Oo or zoo or loo stood for "you," Deelest for "Dearest," and Rettle for "Letter," and Dallars for "Girl," Vely for "Very," and Hele and Lele for "Here and there." Litton copied out for his own comfort and Martha's this passage. Do you know what? When I am writing in my own language I make up my mouth just as if I was speaking it: "Zoo must cly Lele and Hele, and Hele aden. Must loo mimitate Pdfr., pay? Iss, and so la shall! And so leles fol ee rettle. Dood mollow." And Dean Swift had written this while he was in London two hundred years before, a great man among great men. With such authority back of him Litton returned to his empty class-room feeling as proud as Gulliver in Lilliput. A little later he was Gulliver in Brobdingnag. Alone at his desk, with none of his students in the seats before him, he took from his pocket--his left pocket--a photograph of Prof. Martha Binley. It had been taken one day on a picnic far from the spying eyes of pupils. Her hair was all wind-blown, her eyes frowned gleamingly into the sun, and her mouth was curled with laughter. He sat there alone--the learned professor--and talked to this snapshot in a dialogue he would have recently accepted as a perfect examination paper for matriculation in an insane-asylum. "Well, Margy-wargy, zoo and Stookie-tookie is dust like old Dean Swiffikins, isn't we?" There was a rap on the door and the knob turned as he shot the photograph into his pocket and pretended to be reading a volume of Bacchylides--upside down. The intruder was Teed. Litton was too much startled and too throbbing with guilt to express his indignation. He stammered: "We-well, Teed?" He almost called him teed-leums, his tongue had so caught the rhythm of love. Teed came forward with an ominous self-confidence bordering on insolence. There was a glow in his eye that made his former tyrant quail. "Professor, I'd like a word with you about those conditions. I wish you'd let me off on 'em." "Let you off, T-Teed?"