everybody was "called," as a matter of course, to write English, and he
stubbornly nourished the belief that toiling over others' imperfections was
more of a job than boards of trustees always realized.

"Of course," he presently resumed, "things are rather changed from what
they were before. I find more in the way of social opportunities and
greater interest shown by the middle-aged. It is no disadvantage to
cultivate people who have their own homes; the lunch-rooms round the
fountain-square are numerous enough, but not so good as they might be. And
I don't know but that an instructor may lose caste by eating among a
miscellany of undergraduates. Anyhow, it's no plan to pursue for long."

He sat for a moment, lost in thought over recent social experiences.

"One very good house has lately been opened to me," he continued. "I dined
there last Thursday evening. It's really quite a mansion--a great many
large rooms: picture-gallery, ballroom, and all that; and the dinner itself
was very handsomely done. You know my theory,--a theory rather forced upon
me, in truth, by circumstances,--that the best way to enjoy a good meal is
to have had a string of poor ones. Well, since coming back, and with no
permanent arrangements made, I have had plenty of chance for getting into
position to appreciate the really first-class. There was a color-scheme in
pale pink--ribbons of that color, pink icing on the cakes, and so on. The
same thing could be done, and done charmingly, in light green--with
pistache ice-cream. Of course the candle-shades were pink too."

His eye wandered toward a small triangular closet, made off from the room
by a flimsy and faded calico-print curtain.

"I had my dress-suit cleaned and pressed, but the lapels of the coat came