you don't understand."

He stood up, stretching. Then he threw the end of his cigarette away.

"I must go to the Dean," he said. "It's close on the half-hour."


(III)

The Reverend James Mackintosh was an excellent official of his college,
and performed his duties with care and punctilium. He rose about
half-past seven o'clock every morning, drank a cup of tea and went to
chapel. After chapel he breakfasted, on Tuesdays and Thursdays with two
undergraduates in their first year, selected in alphabetical order,
seated at his table; on the other days of the week in solitude. At ten
o'clock he lectured, usually on one of St. Paul's Epistles, on which
subjects he possessed note-books filled with every conceivable piece of
information that could be gathered together--grammatical, philological,
topographical, industrial, social, biographical--with a few remarks on
the fauna, flora, imports, characteristics and geological features of
those countries to which those epistles were written, and in which they
were composed. These notes, guaranteed to guide any student who really
mastered them to success, and even distinction, in his examinations,
were the result of a lifetime of loving labor, and some day, no doubt,
will be issued in the neat blue covers of the "Cambridge Bible for
Schools." From eleven to twelve he lectured on Church history of the
first five centuries--after which period, it will be remembered by all
historical students, Church history practically ceased. At one he
lunched; from two to four he walked rapidly (sometimes again in company
with a serious theological student), along the course known as the