The Professors House
been here long enough. They’re a fussy little
bunch, and he ought to wait until they know him
better.”
“You mean someone will blackball him? Do you really think so? But the Country Club——”
“Yes, Lillian; the Country Club is a big affair, and needs money. The Arts and Letters is a little group of fellows, and, as I said, fussy.”
“Scott belongs,” said Mrs. St. Peter rebelliously. “Did he tell you?”
“No, he didn’t, and I shall not tell you who did. But if you’re tactful, you can save Louie’s feelings.”
Mrs. St. Peter closed her book without glancing down at it. A new interest shone in her eyes and made them look quite through and beyond her hus¬ band. “I must see what I can do with Scott,” she murmured.
St. Peter turned away to hide a smile. An old student of his, a friend who belonged to “the Outland period,” had told him laughingly that he was sure Scott would blackball Marsellus if his name ever came to the vote. “You know Scott is a kid in some things,” the friend had said. “He’s a little sore at Marsellus, and says a secret ballot is the only way he can ever get him where it wouldn’t hurt Mrs. St. Peter.”
While the Professor was eating his soup, he studied his wife’s face in the candlelight. It had changed so much since he found her laughing
—80—
