With the slightest perceptible tightening of his lips John Burnarde began to put on his gloves. "Very fortunately," he said, "there are other professions in the world besides the teaching of English." "Very fortunately," conceded the President. One side of her mouth lifted very faintly with the concession. "Yet somehow, Mr. Burnarde," she added hastily, "I do not seem to picture you as a--as an automobile salesman, for instance. Nor yet visualize that frail, lovely mother of yours relinquishing very easily her life-long ambitions for your deanship--which up to now, of course, has by no means seemed the improbable fruition of your distinguished services with us. Your mother," mused the President, "has doubtless made some sacrifices for you--in her time?" [52] "Most mothers have!" snapped John Burnarde. Roused snap for snap to his tone the President leaned forward suddenly. "You're not the only man," she cried, "who has been both flouted and betrayed by Frivolity! Next time you choose----" Her cheeks flushed scarlet. "Next time you choose, perhaps you will choose more wisely, more consistently with your age and attainments! This mad infatuation is surely but the mood of a moment, the----" Recovering her self-control as quickly almost as she had lost it she sank back with typical statuesqueness into her throne-like Jacobean chair. "Surely, Mr. Burnarde," she asked in all sincerity, "you must admit that the--that the warning I have given you is at least--reasonable?" "Absolutely reasonable!" said John Burnarde. "And absolutely damnable!" And turning on his heel he stalked from the room. But even the winter night could not cool his cheeks now, nor the great pile of unread themes and forensics that he found awaiting him in his room, divert his tortured mind for one single second from the problems of a [53] lover to the problems of a professor. Somewhere indeed, he reasoned, among that white flare of papers a fresh stab of pain undoubtedly awaited him, a familiar handwriting strangely poignant, some little brand new bud of an idea forging valiantly upward through the clotted sod of academic tradition into the sunshine of acknowledged success, a purely prosy rhetorical question, perhaps, thrilled to its very interrogation mark by the sweet new secret hidden behind its formality! With an irresistible impulse he began suddenly to rummage through the themes. Yes, here was _the_ handwriting! With fingers that trembled he unfolded the page. Dated the very night before this dreadful thing had happened, surely somehow--somewhere on this very page the dreadful thing must be disproved!