“No, Dr. Rich. You told me that last October, but you never taught better than in the year that has just closed. I simply can’t consider a resignation. Your health is good, your spirit is young, and your name is our only glory.”
“My dear Charlie, when we elected you president, we did so partly because your manner of speech is so ingratiating. It remains such. You speak me fair and cover my ancient cheeks with blushes, but when you open college in October I shall not be here.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason that I gave you in October. We are going to be drawn into the war, and I’m too old to stand the strain. I served in one war, but you can’t expect a man to pump up the proper amount of hatred at sixty-nine.”
“I tell you we are not going to be drawn in.”
“Charlie, did my boy’s valedictory make so little impression on you?”
“Why, I don’t exactly form my political judgments by the opinions of valedictorians.”
“But that wrath—Horatio’s wrath over the sunken Lusitania—might not that be an index to the American heart?”
“I suppose so. It is barely possible. I’m wondering whether your other valedictorian will follow the same line tonight.”
“Charlie, I have no more notion of what Jean will say tonight than if she were not my child.”