"Honor!" sneered Litton, so savagely that Teed's shameless leer vanished in a glare of anger.
"Nobody yet! The girls are dying to hear and some of the fellows knew what I was up to; but I was thinking that I'd tell 'em that the blamed thing didn't work, provided—provided—"
"Provided?" Litton wailed, miserably.
"Provided you could see your way clear to being a little careless with your marks on my exam-papers."
Litton sat with his head whirling and roaring like a coffee-grinder. A multitude of considerations ran through and were crushed into powder—his honor; her honor; the standards of the university; the standards of a lover; the unimportance of Teed; the all-importance of Martha; the secret disloyalty to the faculty; the open disloyalty to his best-beloved. He heard Teed's voice as from far off:
"Of course, if you can't see your way to sparing my sweetheart's feelings I don't see why I'm expected to spare yours—or to lie to the fellows and girls who are perishing to hear how two professors talk when they're in love."
Another long pause. Then the artful Teed moved to the door and turned the knob. Litton could not speak; but he threw a look that was like a grappling-iron and Teed came back.
"How do I know," Litton moaned, "how do I know that you will keep your word?"
"How do I know that you'll keep yours?" Teed replied, with the insolence of a conqueror.
"Sir!" Litton flared, but weakly, like a sick candle.