The great factory to which Jimmy had been invited lies to the west of Chicago, and at sunset its multitudinous windows make it look like a low long crystal, flaming.
A few miles west of it lived a woman well known to Susan Endicott Hogg, though they had long been separated. It was a woman who had thrown herself away on a mere professor. In spite of Susan’s domineering will, her dearly beloved Winifred had married a pauper nearly twice her own age.
He was, to be sure, an authority on the decline of the Roman Empire. There used to be many such authorities, but the fashion of inquiring why Rome fell has rather gone out. And except for being known to scholars as the editor of the definitive edition of Tacitus, this authority was obscure. He was only Dr. Ambrose Rich, professor in Warrenville College, and sixty-nine years old.
Warrenville College was itself obscure, if for no other reason than that it had never succeeded in lopping off its preparatory department. It was not like the bolts and screws in the Ferry factory, perfectly standardized. And because it was not perfectly standardized it had no share in the Carnegie pension fund or any other pension fund.
Nobody doubted that good work was done in the college, but after all the home folks cared most for the academy.
The college commencement of 1915 was over, and the bachelors of arts had gone off to forget their Greek, and academy commencement was at hand. The whole village had eaten an early supper, and the mothers were washing the dishes while the daughters were getting into their white muslins.
The young president of the college put on his straw hat and wandered out into the evening. The campus oaks rustled softly. From the little river came the murmur of waters flowing past the ruins of the old mill, the reminder of pioneer days when all the county brought its wheat to Warrenville to be ground.
He wandered down to the mill and discovered there his best friend and most valued counselor. Professor Rich was reclining on the bank of the river. His form had a certain wiry ancient elegance. His thick white hair was like a halo, but his beard was small and his features were small, after the manner of certain old New England families.
“Good evening, doctor.”
“Sit down, Mr. President. Heaven has sent you. I am telling you that I have got to quit.”