Professor, How Could You?

PROFESSOR, HOW COULD YOU? By Miss Constance Cannon Lucerne, that city of dreams, is unforgetable. In June, the lake is a magical blue, the mountains are coolly green, and the streets are filled with holidaying crowds, from laughing American debutantes to mysterious Hindu princes. The shops are over-flowing with gay, frivolous things — frothy scarfs and Venetian shawls, apple-green jade on" black velvet, Russian leather- work and quaint Swiss carvings, dia- mond ear-rings, and brocaded slippers. Over the whole of the old Swiss town is the air of happy and unceasing gaiety. Business men, trying to play when all their lives have been concentrated work; ma- trons brilliant with rare jewels, searching through shops to find "that certain blue" to brighten their dull eyes; young girls buying silver flowers and rose-colored fans. Lucerne, under the purple shadow of Mount Pilatus, set so enchantingly in its beauty of hill and lake — Lucerne, the city for honeymooners with the light still in their faces, and the city for tired pleasure-seekers looking for lost dreams. ****** Miss Carmencita McDavid shut her eyes suddenly. She hated this city, she despised the fashionable hotel on whose porch she sat, she loathed the beauty of the sweep of the gulls across the lake. And the reason for all this unpleasantness was that she was lonely. She wasi lonely with the unaccountable and unreasonable loneliness of an American in a strange land — the kind of loneliness that makes one gulp and turn away from the honk of a battered Ford — for there is no sound in the world so unnatural, so nerve-tearing, and so heart- breaking as the honk of a Ford touched by an alien hand. However, Miss Carmencita McDavid, daughter of a Scotch ro- mancer and a Spanish-American senorita, and chaperon of fifteen dazzingly expensive young ladies, late of Belmont college, was not stirred by a Ford's honk. No, she was in much worse condition — Miss McDavid was in love. She was madly, desperately, hopelessly in love with a person, who, according to all college comics and humor magazines, was distinctly unworthy of such an honor — an absent- minded professor. Not that Professor Smithson Mathews was the type, honored in the comics, who scratched his pancakes and poured maple syrup on his head — oh, not at all! He was big and athletic and boyish, but he had a way of looking at one mildly and bashfully and then making some worthy comment on the relativity of Chaucer to early moderns. This was particularly hard, if one possessed, as Carmencita did, a story-book sort of face, lips like gay scraps of velvet, skin faintly and marvelously golden, and hair so dark, fragrant and long that, when made into a dignified coronet, it always seemed just ready

PROFESSOR, HOW COULD YOU? 147 to fall. Perhaps Professor Mathews looked at Carmencita's eyes and maybe that accounts for his timidity. For her eyes were steel- grey, serene and very cold. - Long sweeping lashes fought to soften them, but failed. Miss McDavid loved her eyes, they had done so much for her. They had secured her a position as jteacher of modern languages at Belmont college. Dr. Mills, the president, had hesitated before admitting this radiant, princess-like college graduate to his faculty, but after she had raised her eyes and he had looked into their icy depths, he hesitated no longer. And it was certainly the coldness of those eyes which made the Faculty choose Miss McDavid as the suitable chaperon for the "annual European trip, cultural and educa- tional," (as described in the College Catalog). Undoubtedly, also, it was Professor Mathews' way of looking and hever seeing, that de- cided the Faculty in his favor, as business manager of the expedition. As Miss Gregg, head of the mathematics department said: "If I had a daughter I would trust her any place on earth with Smithson Mathews." And so, in accordance with the Faculty's decision, Miss McDavid and Professor Mathews had toured Europe together. What mattered fifteen young ladies when each one's eyes were only for the other? When each one listened only for the other's voice, what mattered the squeals and chatter of fifteen young ladies! Holland, country of dykes and canals, with her myriads of tulips and wooden shoes; Germany, land of legend and romance, with her historic Rhine and fabled fortresses; France, with her cathedrals and boulevards1; Spain, with bull-fights and lace mantillas; Italy, land of music and happy-hearted beggars, with unbelievably blue skies and ancient ruins — all these they had wandered through, and looked at each other and said nothing. Now they were in Switzerland, most beau- tiful of all, with her colorful lakes and snowy-hooded mountains, her arcaded old cities and quaint chalets. And so the cold, reserved chaperon sat and dreamed of the pro- fessor. She stared at the promenaders, the lake boats and the limou- sines. Then hating all the beauty and gayety because he wasn't seeing it with her, (she went up 'to pack her bags. She planned all sorts of foolish and childish things — she dreamed of sudden train wrecks, breath- less escapes, and romantic rescues. But because the blood of her Span- ish mother fought with Scotch caution, these dreams only went on in her head, and Carmencita, in her anxiety to keep her poise and self-control, was making herself more cold and sternly gracious than ever before. Of course, as was natural under the circumstances, she treated the object of her hopes and dreams as frigidly as if he were a ten-year-old boy caught at "passing notes." The professor would sigh and look away from her icy eyes and vaguely and mournfully wonder what he had done to hurt her feelings. And then he would dream of grey eyes grown suddenly soft and sweet and a mouth of scarlet geranium.

148 IMPROVEMENT ERA At this stage in the affairs of the pair of school-teachers, Fate, like a laughing, wrinkled old lady, with a gossipy tongue and interfer- ing fingers, decided to take a hand. So she sent her tool in the shape of a girl, as is usual in such cases. This girl was a sophisticated bit of golden daintiness. She was the wealthiest, prettiest and most influ- ential of the fifteen young ladies under Miss McDavid's excellent super- vision. She was Miss Patsy Everett. I need say no more, for* every newspaper reader knows that name and probably will remember the incident I am about to relate. That name spells wealth, position, prestige. So you can perhaps imagine the crash and blare that went out, one June evening, when the' moon was a slim ship sailing in a midnight pool, when Miss Patsy attempted to slip quietly from the ornate hotel and become the bride of Tony Scarnitelli, the handsome Italian chauffeur. Morning came and fourteen excited young ladies sat on the wide, pleasant veranda of the hotel and talked. They all talked and chat- tered and squeaked, and sounded as much like a cageful of parrots, as fourteen young ladies with expensively trained voices can. The subject, of course, was, "My, dear, imagine a chauffeur!" "Darling, I may be snobbish, but an Italian farmer's son, why, it's terrible." "Really, that is too much!" "What will her family do? They are simply the elite!" Then suddenly, silence fell on the group as Miss McDavid came from the lobby. She had just come from her inter- view with the handsome young chauffeur and the determined young heiress. She had explained to them the difference between American and European standards in regard to elopements, and she had prom- ised to intercede for them with the girl's family. Miss McDavid felt strangely peaceful and at ease. She knew that perhaps recriminations would come, and blame and accusations of carelessness on her part as chaperon, but she didn't care — they seemed so happy and sure of their love. Then as she neared the group of girls she became aware of their talk and the subject. She heard the words, "chauffeur, family, wealthy, farmer's son, trash, a mere nobody," and then silence as they saw her approach. Miss McDavid stopped, flung back her head and with blazing, grey eyes and flushing cheeks, she spoke as no poor teacher should ever speak to daughters of railroad magnates and bank presi- dents, Wall Street kings, and oil princes. Her words: came clear and low but they carried to an open window where a supposedly absent- minded professor sat, emerged in telegrams and explanations. She said, "You miserable little snobs, how do you dare to talk that way? You ought to be in your rooms crying because you didn't have the luck to be loved by a clean, ambitious farmer boy who has had the courage to do honest work as a stepping-stone to. something better. You girls are always talking of love and marriage, but what are you planning to do? Why, you will marry the man with the most money and the highest social position. Don't you realize that love is all that

PROFESSOR. HOW COULD YOU? 149 counts — that there are more truths and wonders and happiness to be learned in the right man's heart than anything else in the world?" And then inexplicably, Miss McDavid's eyes filled with tears, and her voice was suddenly dull and broken, "You girls would better go and pack." The girls, silent now and respectful, hurried away, and Car- mencita sat and tried to keep from laughing hysterically. Miss McDavid, famed for her coldness and poise and believed to be imper- vious to any emotion, had broken down strangely at the sight of a pair of joyous young lovers; though she felt quiet and peaceful and relieved. She did not sfart when a chair was drawn close to hers, nor when a hand clasped hers, and a beloved voice said softly, "Car- mencita, why did you act so cold when I love you so? I thought you too well poised, too hard and cold. I thought you stern and hateful of love. I thought you a perfect woman without a heart." Carmencita looked away from the blue of the lake and the green of the hills and the dull, purple shadows where the two met, from the busy street and the flashing cars, and, despite the fact that they were in the most conspicuous place of the most conspicuous hotel in Lucerne, she raised her face to his. Her eyes were the soft gray of an old lady's silvery dress in candlelight. She spoke and her voice was new and vibrant, "Oh, Professor, how could you?" Basel, Switzerland Wealth Supernal Give me a friend, yes a feeling friend, Who knows of my faults, yet loves me still; One I can trust to the very end — Who blazes my trail up life's steep hill. Let me abide in his atmosphere, And share the muse of his inmost soul. Rich then am I as we journey here, While some may be poor in their wealth of gold. Give me a home, be it crude or old, In which love dwells in its truest sense ; Where something impels me back to my fold, To fond embrace as my recompense; With thinking children, strong and clean,. Who play well the game and understand. Then wealth is mine in my hovel mean, While some are poor in their mansions grand. Give me a hope and a yearning soul; A confiding trust in the God of all; An impelling faith in a well marked goal, With power to surmount every grave downfall. Let heart-throbs be germs of a greater self — Through sympathy feel in each brother's woe. Then poor may be men in financial wealth, But I shall be rich in men's hearts, I know. Los Angeles, Calif. O. F. URSENBACH.