table, pulled out a drawer, laid a sheet of paper in the bettered light, and uncorked a black-ink bottle.
"Dear Arthur," he began.
He looked across to the other chair, with its broken spindles and obfuscated varnish. With things as he wanted them, his correspondent would be sitting there and letter-writing would be unnecessary.
"Dear Arthur," he repeated aloud, and set himself to a general sketch of the new land and the "lay" of it.
"Three-quarters of them are of course girls," he presently found himself writing, "which is the common proportion almost everywhere, I presume, except in engineering and dentistry. However, there are four or five men. I've been pretty careful, and they still treat me with respect. I'm afraid my course is regarded as a 'snap.' Everybody, it seems, can grasp English literature (and produce it). And almost anybody, I begin to fear, can teach it. Judging, that is, from the pay. I'm afraid the good folks at Freeford will find themselves pinched for another year still."
He glanced across toward the pile of corrected themes. He felt that not 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
