“Satisfied! I’m afraid you’re taking a bit for granted. I repeat, if you’ll tell me explicitly what you wish—”
“I was mistaken, then, after all,” with a peculiar direct look. “You don’t really know, Sanford didn’t announce—I’m surprised. I never fancied he’d miss the opportunity. It’s superhuman repression!”
For fully half a minute Mr. Gleason said nothing; then at the interrupting sound of footsteps in the storm vestibule, followed an instant later by the click of a latch-key, he leaned suddenly toward the younger man.
“That’s Elice now,” he said. The voice was almost childishly hurried and curious. “What was it that you wondered I didn’t know, that Sanford didn’t announce?”
From under shaded lids Armstrong observed 151 the change and smiled. The smile vanished as a shadow passed through the entrance.
“I merely marvelled that the dean didn’t announce that there would be no professor of chemistry after another week, the close of the present semester,” he said evenly. “That is, until a new one is appointed.”
“Steve!” The old man’s face went gray,—gray as the face of a believer whose gods have been offered sacrilege. In the silence the shadow advanced to the doorway of the room itself; very real, paused there waiting, all-seeing, listening. “You mean you’re leaving the department then, quitting for good?”
“For good, no, hardly.” Again a laugh, but tense now, forced. “Nor quitting. In plain English I mean I’m kicked out, fired. By request, very insistent request, I’ve resigned.” With an effort he met the girl’s eyes fairly. “I’ve babbled my last lecture in college halls, piped my swan song. The curtain is down, the orchestra has packed its instruments. Only the echo now remains.”
“Tell me about it, Steve.” The old man had gone, dodderingly, on a pitifully transparent pretext. The girl had tossed coat and gloves 152 on one chair and herself had taken another, removing her hat as she spoke.