will do me good, you see. It shan't take me more than
ten minutes at a brisk pace."

"Yes," he agreed. "I believe I shall walk myself. The air is good for
the circulation, as long as one's pace is brisk."

Gretchen rose, and took a curtsey. The Professor held her coat and
stood attentively while she donned her gloves. "I do thank you most
kindly for the enchanting evening, Professor Bridwell. It--it has been
marvelous."

"Likewise, Miss Haviland. I sincerely hope we shall have the pleasure
again soon."

With a few more words of parting, Gretchen stepped into the street,
followed by Professor Bridwell, and they went their separate ways. She
fancied that he stood in the street and gazed at her until she turned
the next corner, but she dared not glance back. The evening was
extremely cold, though not overcast, and her wool coat, even with a
shawl wrapped beneath, did not keep the chill from seeping into her
bones. She rarely wore hats, but that evening she wished she had
one--one of those large fur hats so favored in Russia, she
thought--that would be most appropriate, since she could pull it down
around her ears. By the time she arrived at her rooming house a few
minutes later, she was shivering. She undressed and went straight to
bed beneath layers of feather comforters with a hot water bottle
pressed against her chest. She had no appetite for supper, and
resolved to arise early and eat a hearty breakfast to compensate.

Sleep was elusive in the extreme, but Gretchen found herself strangely
delighted that she could not sleep, for she had the leisure to think
over in detail all that had happened that day. And especially, she had
time to ponder her interlude with Professor Bridwell. He was a most
intriguing man. He was a professor of English Literature--well, that
could mean almost anything, she supposed--yet he did not have that
_way_ about him. Nearly every professor of English she had ever
met--and a good many students of literature as well--were continually
spouting clever quotes gleaned from the works of obscure authors,
living and dead--they were not particular about that. It often seemed
to her that the more obscure the quotation, the more it was admired
amongst their cronies. She had always found such practices revolting.
But Professor Bridwell was not at all like that. Why, the entire
evening--and it had been two hours in fact that they had sat over cups
lukewarm coffee--he had never quot