“Mr.—? Mr.—?—” he said, fumbling at his index cards.
“Gant,” said Eugene.
“Ah, yes—Mr. Gant,” he smiled his contrition. “Now—about your outside reading?” he began.
But what, thought Eugene, about my inside reading?
Did he like to read? Ah—that was good. He was so glad to hear it. The true university in these days, said Carlyle (he did hope Eugene liked rugged old Thomas), was a collection of books.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene.
That, it seemed to him, was the Oxford Plan. Oh, yes—he had been there, three years, in fact. His mild eye kindled. To loaf along the High on a warm Spring day, stopping to examine in the bookseller’s windows the treasures that might be had for so little. Then to Buol’s or to a friend’s room for tea, or for a walk in the meadows or Magdalen gardens, or to look down into the quad, at the gay pageant of youth below. Ah—Ah! A great place? Well—he’d hardly say that. It all depended what one meant by a great place. Half the looseness in thought—unfortunately, he fancied, more prevalent among American than among English youth—came from an indefinite exuberance of ill-defined speech.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene.
A great place? Well, he’d scarcely say that. The expression was typically American. Butter-lipped, he turned on the boy a smile of soft unfriendliness:
“It kills,” he observed, “a man’s useless enthusiasms.”
Eugene whitened a little.
“That’s fine,” he said.
Now—let him see. Did he like plays—the modern drama? Excellent. They were doing some very interesting things in the modern drama. Barrie—oh, a charming fellow! What was that? Shaw!
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene. “I’ve read all the others. There’s a new book out.”
“Oh, but really! My dear boy!” said Mr. Torrington with gentle amazement. He shrugged his shoulders and became politely indifferent. Very well, if he liked. Of course, he thought it
