other teachers," said he, taking a grim gripe of his self-possession, which half escaped him—"It is as well you are not. Do you think I care for being caught? Not I. I often visit your desk."
"Monsieur, I know it."
"You find a brochure or a tome now and then; but you don't read them, because they have passed under this?"—touching his cigar.
"They have, and are no better for the process, but I read them."
"Without pleasure?"
"Monsieur must not be contradicted."
"Do you like them, or any of them?—are they acceptable? "
"Monsieur has seen me reading them a hundred times, and knows I have not so many recreations as to undervalue those he provides."
"I mean well; and, if you see that I mean well, and derive some little amusement from my efforts, why can we not be friends?"
"A fatalist would say—because we cannot."
"This morning," he continued, "I awoke in a bright mood, and came into classe happy; you spoiled my day."
