“Just the same, you were a good deal of a rotter to sit there and—and make fun—”
“Yes, I was, Bingham, and I’m sorry. I apologize, honestly. It isn’t much of an excuse, I know, but—but I wasn’t feeling very chipper myself.”
Clif nodded. Kemble, of course, was referring to that session with Mr. Wyatt. Then:
“Maybe,” added Kemble more constrainedly, “I’ll tell you about it some time.”
“Oh!” said Clif, for want of anything better. Kemble was staring frowningly at the nearby checker board. Observing him, Clif sensed a matter more serious than the recent English quiz. A silence that might have become slightly awkward in another moment was dispelled by the golden tones of the clock across the corridor. They reached Clif even above the noise of the room, and he sprang to his feet. “Gee! Seven-thirty! I’ve got to beat it, Kemble. Listen; I—”
“Go ahead. I’m with you.”
In the corridor, where half a dozen boys were awaiting their turns at the telephone booths outside the Office, Kemble said, “Look for me in Assembly Hall at eight, eh? I’ll stick around the door.”
“Right-o!” agreed Clif, making for the stairs. “Wear a red carnation, will you?”
Kemble grinned and waved.
Although Clif reached his appointment several minutes late he had to wait several more minutes while Mr. McKnight disposed of a previous visitor, and he used the time in making an interested and approving examination of his surroundings. There were four faculty suites in each of the two dormitory buildings, and Mr. McKnight occupied Number 19, W., just around the corner from Clif’s room. Number 19, however, didn’t resemble Number 17 much. The study was a big, nearly square room with windows on two sides. Back of it, visible between parted draperies of dark blue, was the bedroom, and from that opened a bathroom of white tiling and gleaming nickel. But it was the study that enthralled Clif. Everything about it was so homelike and jolly. There was a small grand piano by the nearer window with a gorgeous silk prayer rug laid across it. Before the fireplace ran a huge couch that simply begged to be lolled in, and there was a shaded light behind one corner, in exactly the right place for reading. Rugs covered the floor, pictures—good ones, too, Clif was certain—peered down from the pleasant dimness of paneled walls, bookcases flanked the chimney. Here and there a deep chair; its leather cushion a mite shabby from honorable service, held forth inviting arms. Beside one, on a low stand, lay a blackened pipe, a magazine, opened face-down, and a heavy brass paper knife. For the first time Clif discerned advantages in the profession of pedagogy. If a fellow could live in a room like this, why, gee, teaching wouldn’t be so bad!