“No. Neither is the furnace room.”
“But the tower would give one such a philosophical elevation, just like old Teufelsdrockh in Carlyle’s book.”
“Oh, damn Carlyle!”
“Uncle Alfred!”
“Excuse me, Lorna,” he laughed mischievously. “Well—a place will be found. Now, you two, clear out. There’s a congregation of pilgrims near by, seeking the shrine of Magnus Apollo.”
Mauney did not know that the young lady with whom he walked down the worn stone steps of the history department was the daughter of Professor Freeman of that same department, whose office they passed on their way to the square. That was to be learned later. He only knew that she seemed an exceptionally fine person.
“Isn’t it funny,” he remarked, as they passed through the long corridor of the Arts Building. “That there should only be two of us in the class.”
“No, I don’t think it’s funny,” she said.
“I mean remarkable,” he corrected himself.
“Well, it’s a small class, certainly,” she admitted. “There are few people who elect history as a straight course in Merlton, I believe. There should be more. I had wished there would be at least another woman.”