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College once more.
It had the busy serenity of a bee hive. Its murmurous exclusiveness went against the vision of an outer world as a rebuke and a rebuff. But within the compact regions of honey and smug larvæ and pompous leaders, for those who were not really of it, however deeply in it, there was the quality of the sting.
Quincy came back, moved and settled within new chambers, and looked about him. A sophomore. The heir, that meant, of the hum and the comb and the autonomy—laden with the equally strict traditions to enjoy these and to perpetuate them. A generation of larvæ lay, already, cuddled underneath him. And without, there was the world to which no visit must be dreamed of, no glance directed, save as a place of furnishing and fodder for the hive. All of it stretched out, a mere subsidiary. Its flowers were servants, its fertility was impost to the hive. In it, as in his home, were cloying and shutting-out and a sting. These were the first impressions. They came without bidding. But Quincy was resolved not to be satisfied with such. He went forth, therefore, to look about him.
Perhaps his new instructor in English helped him as much as anything to bearings. His name was Egbert Simson. He was a graduate of the college. He had won honors in all the possible fields of it. He had won his letter in track; he had served on the college monthly; he had led his class in scholarship and presided over the college branch of the Young Men’s Christian Association, He was a perfect man. And now, he was a member of the faculty. In a year, he would have his doctor’s thesis. In five years, he would be grappling toward a professorship. In ten years, he would publish an edition of the Poems of Suckling. All his life he would continue humming and honey-gathering for the hive.
Quincy came to know him, sophomore year, in his capacity of preceptor. For each student had such a one. Early in the fall term, was the time when he had to see the estimable Simson—twice in two weeks. This served greatly, together with the general impression of the class.
Mr. Simson was tall and inclined to fullness of figure. His face had once had lines, hard and aplenty. But general happiness would soon abolish them to roundness. His little clear blue eyes shone forth from their soft frames with an easy prospect, as if they knew beforehand what they were going to see—and should somewhat else be there, they would simply refuse to see it. His nose was still straight, nor had the incipient rising fleshliness of his cheeks yet undermined its shallow impertinence. His lips were of the general blown-ness that smacked often, smiled at will and were not employed when a guttural throat-sound announced laughter. Mr. Simson’s forehead was narrow and smooth and round below his sleek brown hair. His hands were fat but the soft fingers tapered gently. In all of his being there glamored fluency, serenity and an inviolable blindness. This man was one of the favorite figures in the hive. His hum was forever marked and forever sought. If he had not been a male, one might readily have called him “Queen.” But even his maleness was unobtrusive, since the hive worshipped the more passive sort. Mr. Simson’s voice was soft and high. He was easily shocked and when he was, he wiggled his lissom form and threw back his perfectly rounded head. He was staid and Christian. It was meant to be quite evident that when he married the daughter of some affluent trustee, he would go to her in a state of virginity that would save her blushes. It was quite evident as well that he would never marry the daughter of any one less trustful and less affluent than a trustee. Mr. Simson lacked money. But it was known that several of his relations were financial kings. All of his friends, moreover, were as well chosen as his relations. And since he had not chosen his own father, one never heard of him. Mr. Simson, however, was far too proper not to be untiringly devoted to his mother. One heard often of that. Moreover, she had an infallible eye for trustfulness and affluence. Frequently she went along on a friend’s yachting tour with him.
On Mr. Simson’s more specific qualifications for teaching English literature, it would be sheer pedantry to dwell.
“You should see,” Quincy explained to Garsted, “with what scruples Simson discharges his duties as preceptor, toward me.” The boy laughed. “He can’t stand me.”