had enjoyed this when I read it, but now that Fate had arranged a
precisely similar situation, with myself in the role of the young
copper, the fun of the thing appealed to me not at all.

It was Ukridge who was to blame for the professor's regrettable
explosion and departure, and he ought by all laws of justice to have
suffered for it. As it was, I was the only person materially affected.
It did not matter to Ukridge. He did not care twopence one way or the
other. If the professor were friendly, he was willing to talk to him
by the hour on any subject, pleasant or unpleasant. If, on the other
hand, he wished to have nothing more to do with us, it did not worry
him. He was content to let him go. Ukridge was a self-sufficing
person.

But to me it was a serious matter. More than serious. If I have done
my work as historian with an adequate degree of skill, the reader
should have gathered by this time the state of my feelings.

"I did not love as others do:
None ever did that I've heard tell of.
My passion was a by-word through
The town she was, of course, the belle of."

At least it was--fortunately--not quite that; but it was certainly
genuine and most disturbing, and it grew with the days. Somebody with
a taste for juggling with figures might write a very readable page or
so of statistics in connection with the growth of love. In some cases
it is, I believe, slow. In my own I can only say that Jack's beanstalk
was a backward plant in comparison. It is true that we had not seen a
great deal of one another, and that, when we had met, our interview