“I thought you were correcting your mathematics papers.”

“I am, or have been; but I am reading Theocritus, too.”

“Well, I don’t see anything in a day like this to make anybody think of summer.  The dampness goes to your very marrow.”

“It isn’t the day; it’s the poetry.  That’s the good of there being poetry.”

She skipped his parenthesis.  “And you keep this room as cold as a vault.”  Not faultfinding, but a somewhat irritating concern for his comfort was in the complaint.

She went to the hearth and in her efficient way shook down the ashes from the grate and heaped it with coal.  A cabinet photograph of a girl in her early teens, which had the appearance of having just been put there, was supported against a slender glass vase.  Mrs. Cowart took it up and examined it critically.  “I don’t think this picture does Arnoldina justice,” she said.  “One of the eyes seems to droop a little, and the mouth looks sad.  Arnoldina never did look sad.”

They were on common ground now, and he could speak without constraint.  “I hadn’t observed that it looked sad.  She seems somehow to have got a good deal older since September.”

“She is maturing, of course.”  All a mother’s pride and approbation, were in the reserve of the speech.  To have put more definitely her estimate of the sweet young face would have been a clumsy thing in comparison.

Lindsay’s countenance lighted up.  He arose, and standing by his wife, looked over her shoulder as she held the photograph to the light.  “Do you know, Gertrude,” he said, “there is something in her face that reminds me of Stella?”

“I don’t know that I see it,” she answered, indifferently, replacing the photograph and returning to her chair.  The purpose which had brought her to the room rose to her face.  “I stopped at the warehouse this afternoon,” she said, “and had a talk with father.  Jamieson really goes to Mobile—­the first of next month.  The place is open to you if you want it.”

“But, Gertrude, how should I possibly want it?” he expostulated.

“You would be a member of the firm.  You might as well be making money as the rest of them.”

He offered no comment.

“It is not now like it was when you were made professor.  The town has become a commercial centre and its educational interests have declined.  The professors will always have their social position, of course, but they cannot hope for anything more.”

“It is not merely Vaucluse, but the South, that is passing into this phase.  But economic independence has become a necessity.  When once it is achieved, our people will turn to higher things.”

“Not soon enough to benefit you and me.”

“Probably not.”

“Then why waste your talents on the college, when the best years of your life are still before you?”

“I am not teaching for money, Gertrude.”  He hated putting into the bald phrase his consecration to his ideals for the young men of his State; he hated putting it into words at all; but something in his voice told her that the argument was finished.