“Slightly — in a painful way. He’s head of the department where I keep flunking. Trig this year. Duff,” it was said earnestly, “do you think there is any way for the feeble-minded — meaning me— to ever catch onto the mere meaning of trigonometry?”
“Why you studying it?”
“Had to have the credit. In science. To graduate.”
“Why don’t you come and talk about it to me? I bet I could straighten you out. Trig’s a cinch. Trouble is, they teach it hard.”
“Brother! You have poured the tea! Would you run over the topic with me some night? I’d appreciate it!”
“Glad to.”
“What about day after tomorrow? It’s one of Eleanor’s working nights, so I won’t be distracted. Be able to concentrate. At least till she comes home.”
“Okay,” Duff said.
He continued toward his class alone, watching the retreat of the elegantly dressed Mr.
Smythe. Duff didn’t need to glance down at his own faded jeans and frayed shirt cuffs to visualize the comparison or to think how odious it would seem to a young lady soon to serve as Orange Bowl Queen.