The Professor's House
fore he knew it was passing, the bells from Augusta's
church across the park rang out and told him it was
gone. He pushed back his papers and arranged
his writing-table for lunch.
He had been working hard, he judged, because he was so hungry. He peered with interest into the basket his wife had given him—a wicker bag, it was, really, that he had once bought full of strawberries at Gibraltar. Chicken sandwiches with lettuce leaves, red California grapes, and two shapely, long-necked russet pears. That would do very well; and Lillian had thoughtfully put in one of her best dinner napkins, knowing he hated ugly linen. From the chest he took out a round cheese, and a bottle of his wine, and began to polish a sherry glass.
While he was enjoying his lunch, he was thinking of certain holidays he had spent alone in Paris,
when he was living at Versailles, with the Thieraults, as tutor to their boys. There was one All Souls' Day when he had gone into Paris by an early train and had a magnificent breakfast on the Rue de Vaugirard—not at Foyot's, he hadn't in those days to put his nose inside the place. After breakfast he went out to walk in the soft rainfall. The sky was of such an intense silvery grey that all grey stone buildings along the Rue St. Jacques and the Rue Sufflot came out in that silver shine money enough the stronger than in sunlight. The shop windows were
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