Professor Deering examined him closely. “Well, you see,” he said, “there’s an empire of false standards in such a college as ours,--in all American institutions, to speak frankly. The flaw lies in the creed, which is fostered by the faculty, that college is a place to do things, a standard-in-itself, a place-in-itself. For this arbitrary creed, arbitrary goals and targets are set up--secret societies, athletic insignia, a host of extra-curriculum activities. These are looked on, not as play, but as ends. They become the _business_ of the bulk of our students. By senior year, the students themselves laugh at them--at the professors for fostering them--with real life before them. But at the beginning, it is hard to hold one’s balance, to remember that college as a thing-in-itself is trumpery; that it can be exalted only if it be made subservient to personal, spiritual growth.” “Results, then--you mean--are bad?” “They’re as bad as rules,” laughed Professor Deering. This excited Quincy. “How then can you give marks in your classes?” The Professor looked at him, not with anger as Quincy had feared, after putting this question, but with pleasure. He smiled. “You haven’t got me there! I must give marks, since our College thinks it must give degrees. But I give the marks only nominally. In my classes, each June, the students hand in to me their own marks--given to themselves in honor and by their personal lights. In that way, I outdo the authorities above me.” “Does anyone ever flunk himself?” “It has happened frequently. My practice, moreover, has proved to me how little conceit there really is in youth.” Quincy’s eyes glowed at this. “I have a reputation for very low marking. Of course, it is the men who are responsible. But I never over-ride their judgment, in either extreme.” “Even if you disagree?” “Would that be reasonable?” flashed back Professor Deering. Just then, a man came up and placed his hand on the Professor’s shoulder. “I’ve been all through the train, looking for you, Deering,” he said. “Didn’t you know we had an extra seat for you in the Pullman? Will you come?” The Professor smiled as a man does who is found out, once again, in an old foible. Then, he turned politely to his neighbor. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Burt?” Quincy wished to speak graciously. “Thank you,” he said, with what seemed irrelevance. The big man nodded seriously--embarrassed at such embarrassment. He gathered up his coat and his portfolio and trudged away, supporting himself with his massive hands down the corridor of the swinging train. * * * * * The time that remained--though the long part of the journey--was brief to Quincy. He now had his seat to himself--and he was doubly glad. For he could have thought of no substitute for Professor Deering who would not have been sacrilege.