“It wasn’t bad news,” I insisted.
“Then why the tears?” he inquired curiously. “Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean——”
He was smiling, but somehow I had a feeling that he was trying to cheer me up and not making fun of me. I was so low in my mind that afternoon that anyone who acted in the least degree sympathetic was destined to fall a victim. Before I knew it I had told him of my shipwrecked hopes and how your letter had opened the flood gates of disappointment and nearly put out the kitchen fire.
“College—you!” I heard him exclaim under his breath. He stared at me solemnly for a moment and then he exclaimed, “O tempora, O mores! What’s to hinder?”
“What’s to hinder?” I repeated blankly.
“Yes,” he said, “having the room anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Why,” he explained, “you have a room of your own, haven’t you? Why don’t you fix it up just the way you had planned to have your room in college? Then you can go there and study and make believe you’re in college.”
I stared at him open-mouthed. “Make-believe has never been my long suit,” I said.
“Come on,” he urged. “I’ll help you fix it up. If you have any more tears prepare to shed them now into the paint pot and dissolve the paint.”