Although Clif reached his appointment several minutes late he had to wait several more minutes while Mr. McKnight disposed of a previous visitor, and he used the time in making an interested and approving examination of his surroundings. There were four faculty suites in each of the two dormitory buildings, and Mr. McKnight occupied Number 19, W., just around the corner from Clif’s room. Number 19, however, didn’t resemble Number 17 much. The study was a big, nearly square room with windows on two sides. Back of it, visible between parted draperies of dark blue, was the bedroom, and from that opened a bathroom of white tiling and gleaming nickel. But it was the study that enthralled Clif. Everything about it was so homelike and jolly. There was a small grand piano by the nearer window with a gorgeous silk prayer rug laid across it. Before the fireplace ran a huge couch that simply begged to be lolled in, and there was a shaded light behind one corner, in exactly the right place for reading. Rugs covered the floor, pictures――good ones, too, Clif was certain――peered down from the pleasant dimness of paneled walls, bookcases flanked the chimney. Here and there a deep chair; its leather cushion a mite shabby from honorable service, held forth inviting arms. Beside one, on a low stand, lay a blackened pipe, a magazine, opened face-down, and a heavy brass paper knife. For the first time Clif discerned advantages in the profession of pedagogy. If a fellow could live in a room like this, why, gee, teaching wouldn’t be so bad! Mr. McKnight sat at the farther side of a desk table, the light from a green-shaded lamp cutting him off at the top button of his waistcoat and leaving his face in mellow shadow. But when Clif had taken the chair across the polished expanse of mahogany surface the instructor’s countenance was plainly visible. Mr. McKnight was the youngest member of the faculty, being but twenty-eight. Although his first name was Godfrey, he was popularly known as “Lovey.” The reason was obscure. Some said that he had brought the nickname with him from college, others that it had been conferred upon him after he had arrived at Wyndham, but none could say why. Clif didn’t consider that the name suited. In the first place, “Lovey” was rather a large man, dark haired, keen eyed and deep voiced; and, after that, there was nothing at all effeminate in his manner nor affectionate in the tone in which he had bade Clif exchange the chair by the door for that at the table. “Your name’s Clifton Bingham,” said Mr. McKnight briskly. “You’re in the Third Class.” Clif assented, watching the instructor take a gray oblong of cardboard from a drawer and begin to write on it. The writing was small and extremely neat and legible.