They ascended to number seven. Mr. Magee piled fresh logs on the fire; Mr. Bland saw to it that the door was not tightly closed. The professor removed, along with other impedimenta, his ear tabs, which were connected by a rubber cord. He waved them like frisky detached ears before him. "An old man's weakness," he remarked. "Foolish, they may seem to you. But I assure you I found them useful companions in climbing Baldpate Mountain at this hour." He sat down in the largest chair suite seven owned, and from its depths smiled benignly at the two young men. "But I am not here to apologize for my apparel, am I? Hardly. You are saying to yourselves 'Why is he here?' Yes, that is the question that disturbs you. What has brought this domesticated college professor scampering from the Pagan Renaissance to Baldpate Inn? For answer, I must ask you to go back with me a week's time, and gaze at a picture from the rather dreary academic kaleidoscope that is my life. "I am seated back of a desk on a platform in a bare yellow room. In front of me, tier on tier, sit a hundred young men in various attitudes of inattention. I am trying to tell them something of the ideal poetry that marked the rebirth of the Saxon genius. They are bored. I--well, gentlemen, in confidence, even the mind of a college professor has been known to wander at times from the subject in hand. And then--I begin to read a poem--a poem descriptive of a woman dead six hundred years and more. Ah, gentlemen--" He sat erect on the edge of his great chair. Back of the thick lenses of his spectacles he had eyes that still could flash. "This is not an era of romance," he said. "Our people grub in the dirt for the dollar. Their visions perish. Their souls grow stale. Yet, now and then, at most inopportune times, comes the flash that reveals to us the glories that might be. A gentleman of my acquaintance caught a glimpse of perfect happiness while he was in the midst of an effort to corner the pickle market. Another evolved the scheme of a perfect ode to the essential purity of woman in--a Broadway restaurant. So, like lightning across the blackest sky, our poetic moments come." Mr. Bland wrapped his gay quilt more securely about him. Mr. Magee smiled encouragement on the newest raconteur. "I shall be brief," continued Professor Bolton. "Heaven knows that pedagogic room was no place for visions, nor were those athletic young men fit companions for a soul gone giddy. Yet--I lost my head. As I read on there returned to my heart a glow I had not known in forty years. The bard spoke of her hair: "'Her yellow lockes, crisped like golden wyre, About her shoulders weren loosely shed' and I saw, as in a dream--ahem, I can trust you, gentlemen--a girl I supposed I had forever forgot in the mold and dust of my later years. I will not go further into the matter. My wife's hair is black.