“Really, I have had sufficient; thank you.”
I filled his glass again.
“Plenty, plenty, thank you!” he insisted, as the liquor reached the brim of the glass.
“But the trouble with Westermark and the other scientific observers,” I began, “is that they give you second-hand knowledge of men and women, theirs is mostly book knowledge. I always feel that I am reading works upon heated blood written by cold, dried-up, bloodless professors, who lack the first-hand experience of one’s own life.”
“I am a professor myself;” said he.
“I beg your pardon, but I mean—”
“Tush—tush!” said he, “you are entirely right. I had to resign my professorship because of a woman. I say, this is a mighty good drink.”
He took the pitcher and refilled his own glass.
“My dear sir,” said he, unbending and stretching his legs, “I like you, for sometimes we can say things to a stranger which we would not dare breathe to a life-long friend. Fourteen years ago I was a professor at a Theological Seminary; I was a lover of beauty, a devout searcher for truth, as natural and free as I am with you now. (Here he lighted one of my cigars.) One twilight in April, the Chairman of the Faculty came to my room, told me that I was the subject of gossip, that my words shocked the New Englanders, and that I must be more circumspect in my conduct. His words wounded my frank nature. I went to Boston and got intoxicated, and sent the Faculty this telegram, saying, “Good-bye, my colleagues. Your world is not my world. Yours is a world of sham learning, hypocritical inconsistency between your reason and your emotions. Good-bye.” Naturally, it was an indiscreet thing to do; but you can wager that they never published that telegram.”
“I should think not;” I said, smiling.