The Professors House
comes along every year now—how different they
are from the ones of our early years here?”
The smooth chin turned again, and the other professor of European history blinked. “In just what respect?”
“Oh, in the all-embracing respect of quality! We have hosts of students, but they’re a common sort.”
“Perhaps. I can’t say I’ve noticed it.” The air between the two colleagues was not thawing out any. A church-bell rang. Langtry started hopefully. “You must excuse me, Doctor St. Peter, I am on my way to service.”
The Professor gave it up with a shrug. “All right, all right, Langtry, as you will. Quelle folie!”
Langtry half turned back, hesitated on the ball of his suddenly speeding foot, and said with faultless politeness: “I beg your pardon?”
St. Peter waved his hand with a gesture of negation, and detained the church-goer no longer. He sauntered along slackly through the hot September sunshine, wondering why Langtry didn’t see the absurdity of their long grudge. They had always been directly opposed in matters of university policy, until it had almost become a part of their professional duties to outwit and cramp each other.
When young Langtry first came there, his spe-
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