The Professors House writing. I’ve seen your uncle about it. I’ll work here, and board at the new house. But this is con¬ fidential. If it were noised about, people might begin to say that Mrs. St. Peter and I had—how do they put it, parted, separated?”
Augusta dropped her eyes in an indulgent smile. “I think people in your station would say separated.”
“Exactly; a good scientific term, too. Well, we haven’t, you know. But I’m going to write on here for a while.”
“Very well, sir. And I won’t always be getting in your way now. In the new house you have a beautiful study downstairs, and I have a light, airy room on the third floor.”
“Where you won’t smell smoke, eh?”
“Oh, Professor, I never really minded!”
Augusta spoke with feeling. She rose and took up the black bust in her long arms.
The Professor also rose, very quickly. “What are you doing?”
She laughed. “Oh, I’m not going to carry them through the street, Professor! The grocery boy is downstairs with his cart, to wheel them over.”
“Wheel them over?”
“Why, yes, to the new house, Professor. I’ve come a week before my regular time, to make curtains and hem linen for Mrs. St. Peter. I’ll take everything over this morning except the sewing
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