“What did he look like?” demanded Frances Andrews, who had been unusually silent for her until now.
“He had brown eyes and a smooth face and reddish hair, and he was middle aged and quite nice,” said Molly glibly.
“What, you don’t mean to say it was Epiménides Antinous Green?”
“Who?” demanded Molly.
“Never mind, don’t let them guy you,” said Sallie Marks. “It was evidently Professor Edwin Green who let you in. He is professor of English literature, and I’ll tell you for your enlightenment that he was nicknamed in a song ‘Epiménides’ after a Greek philosopher, who went to sleep when he was a boy and woke up middle-aged and very wise, and ‘Antinous’ after a very handsome Greek youth. Don’t you think him good-looking?”
“Rather, for an older person,” said Molly thoughtfully.
“He’s not thirty yet, my child,” said Frances Andrews. “At least, so they say, and he’s so clever that two other colleges are after him.”
“And he’s written two books,” went on Sally. “Haven’t you heard of them—‘Philosophical Essays’ and ‘Lyric Poetry.’”
Molly was obliged to confess her ignorance regarding Professor Edwin Green’s outbursts into literature, but she indulged in an inward mental smile, remembering the lyrics in the comic opera libretto.
“He’s been to Harvard and Oxford, and studied in France. He’s a perfect infant prodigy,” went on another girl.