His Zenith classes here had gone not badly, not brilliantly. He had made enough to consider paying the hundred dollars back to Frank Shallard, though certainly not enough to do so. He was tired of this slippery job; he was almost willing to return to farm implements. But he looked anything but discouraged, in his morning coat, his wing collar, his dotted blue bow tie.
Writing at the other half of the lobby desk was a little man with an enormous hooked nose, receding chin, and a Byzantine bald head. He was in a brown business suit, with a lively green tie, and he wore horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Vice-president of a bank, but started as a school-teacher,” Elmer decided. He was conscious that the man was watching him. A possible student? No. Too old.
Elmer leaned back, folded his hands, looked as pontifical as possible, cleared his throat with a learned sound, and beamed.
The little man kept glancing up, rat-like, but did not speak.
“Beautiful morning,” said Elmer.
“Yes. Lovely. On mornings like this all Nature exemplifies the divine joy!”
“My God! No business for me here! He’s a preacher or an osteopath,” Elmer lamented within.
“Is this—this is Dr. Gantry, I believe.”
“Why, yes. I’m, uh, sorry, I—”