Part 4

"But now," Professor Bridwell exclaimed, with a glance to his pocket watch, "I should not be keeping you away from your supper or--or your other duties any longer. Please allow me to escort you home, Miss Haviland--or where you may be going."

"Thank you, Professor--but really there is no need," she declared. She thought that sounded too firm, and she smiled easily, to show that she meant it only literally, not as a rebuff. "My rooms are close by, and the evening air will do me good, you see. It shan't take me more than ten minutes at a brisk pace."

"Yes," he agreed. "I believe I shall walk myself. The air is good for the circulation, as long as one's pace is brisk."

Gretchen rose, and took a curtsey. The Professor held her coat and stood attentively while she donned her gloves. "I do thank you most kindly for the enchanting evening, Professor Bridwell. It--it has been marvelous."

"Likewise, Miss Haviland. I sincerely hope we shall have the pleasure again soon."

With a few more words of parting, Gretchen stepped into the street, followed by Professor Bridwell, and they went their separate ways. She fancied that he stood in the street and gazed at her until she turned the next corner, but she dared not glance back. The evening was extremely cold, though not overcast, and her wool coat, even with a shawl wrapped beneath, did not keep the chill from seeping into her bones. She rarely wore hats, but that evening she wished she had one--one of those large fur hats so favored in Russia, she thought--that would be most appropriate, since she could pull it down around her ears. By the time she arrived at her rooming house a few minutes later, she was shivering. She undressed and went straight to bed beneath layers of feather comforters with a hot water bottle pressed against her chest. She had no appetite for supper, and resolved to arise early and eat a hearty breakfast to compensate.

Sleep was elusive in the extreme, but Gretchen found herself strangely delighted that she could not sleep, for she had the leisure to think over in detail all that had happened that day. And especially, she had time to ponder her interlude with Professor Bridwell. He was a most intriguing man. He was a professor of English Literature--well, that could mean almost anything, she supposed--yet he did not have that way about him. Nearly every professor of English she had ever met--and a good many students of literature as well--were continually spouting clever quotes gleaned from the works of obscure authors, living and dead--they were not particular about that. It often seemed to her that the more obscure the quotation, the more it was admired amongst their cronies. She had always found such practices revolting. But Professor Bridwell was not at all like that. Why, the entire evening--and it had been two hours in fact that they had sat over cups lukewarm coffee--he had never quoted an author, famous or otherwise. Yet, his choice of words, his demeanor, the hint of some foreign influence in his accent--the way he talked of Liszt--all pointed to an intimacy with the most literate form of the English language. Through clear thoughts and meticulous expression--rather than through haphazardly quoting other men--he exuded what she believed was a real professorial air, built upon a solid foundation without pretense. She found him refreshingly attractive, both for his own sake and as a change from the pompous professors she encountered so often in the library. As she drifted into sleep, the hot water bottle pressed against herself, she hoped she would have the opportunity for another such conversation with Professor Bridwell.

* * * * *

Gretchen's cart of books was extraordinarily loaded. Rather than push it slowly between the stacks as she reshelved books, she stopped the cart at the end of each row and carried a few books at a time to their proper places. The library was more quiet than usual, and despite the overwhelming number of books she had to replace that day she worked rather slowly. Lost in thought, she hummed to herself, not so loudly that any patron who happened to be about could hear, but loud enough for her own amusement. She had just returned to the cart and pushed it to the next row. She lifted another armful of books, choosing those whose home was in that particular row, and turned to walk slowly, watching the numbers. She glanced at each book when she shelved it, lamenting that she had too little time that day--there could be no stolen moments of reading, even briefly. She stood on her toes to reach an upper shelf and stopped humming for a moment. The sound of a footfall reached her at that instant, and she gave the book a quick shove.

"Good day, Miss Haviland."

Gretchen looked around to see a fine pair of wool trousers, as she returned her weight fully to her feet. Following upward with her eyes, she felt a pleasant blush. "Professor Bridwell, you startled me!" she exclaimed.

"Careful," he returned, reaching his hand above her head. Gretchen looked up to see that he pushed the book further onto the shelf; she had left it precariously tottering on the edge. "You almost lost one, Miss Haviland."

"Oh dear," she laughed, and grasped the rest of the books more securely to her chest. She continued to walk easily down the row, with her wool skirt swinging about her ankles. "Is there a book I can help you find?" she asked, whirling toward him like a schoolgirl.

"Actually," the professor said, nervously drawing out the word. "I've not come in a--a professional capacity at all today."

"Oh?" Gretchen turned to look at him, but kept walking. With her free hand, she extracted a strand of hair from her mouth.

"The other evening--at coffee," he said, taking up the pace beside her. "Well, really, I found the conversation most delightful and..."

"Yes?" Gretchen stopped, then knelt to shelve another book, lower down.

"And I was wondering," he continued rather quickly, as if he dare not speak of it, "whether you might consent to dine with me this evening."

Gretchen stood up, rather slowly. "I--well..."

"Yes," the professor stammered, "of course--such short notice. I understand. It's hardly proper, and I'm sure you're quite busy. Perhaps another time." He stepped backward as if to take his leave.

"Not at all," Gretchen said with a faint smile. She clutched the heavy books more tightly in her arms. "I should be delighted, really." She caught his eye then, and saw it twinkle. The sight of his smile could not but make her return it fully. "The other evening, it did seem there was ever so much more to say." She continued down the row, with Professor Bridwell beside her.

"Is that an acceptance?"

She laughed and stopped to face him squarely, as if astonished. "Why, I believe it is, Professor." She blinked her eyes. The sudden blush in his cheeks was profound, and she composed herself to keep from laughing.

"Would six o'clock be too late? Or too early?"

"Neither, Professor." Gretchen thought he looked as if he had been handed a Christmas goose. "I'll meet you at the main entrance."

"Stupendous! I'll..." He still sounded incredulous, and seemed near to bursting. He pushed his black locks from his eye, and twisted a lock on one finger. "I'll meet you at six then?"

They took their leaves of each other, and Gretchen thought she heard a faint whistling in the main stairwell as the sound of his boots on the stone steps receded. She flew to her cart immediately the sound died away in the distance. Her unflagging concentration would be required if she were to be finished by six--she had seven more cartloads of books, and less than five hours in which to reshelve them all. She did not stop or rest until five forty-five, when she bid Miss Sadie good evening, and made her way to the main entrance. She stood inside the great oak doors, under stone arches where she could see the professor through the glass when he approached. With a few moments to ponder and catch her breath while she waited, a sudden flutter filled her bosom. Good Lord, she thought to herself--it's a wonder he did not think me scandalously forward. She felt a faint tingling in her cheeks as if she had begun to color. What sort of woman would join a stranger for dinner with five hours notice? Part of her dared not even answer her own question, but another part of her replied that he was not a perfect stranger by any means--she had met him any number of times--and had joined him for coffee with no notice at all. It was hardly the time to start worrying about propriety. She pulled the ribbon from her hair and brushed it before retying the ribbon carefully and flinging her hair behind her back. The least I can do, she thought, is to make myself halfway presentable, though it's a pity I haven't time to change my coat. A hat might have been welcome for its warmth--the evening was sure to be cold--and for fashion as well. But then what is the use of seeming fashionable, she thought, if fashionable I am not?

With his arms wrapped closely around him and his ungloved hands tucked beneath his arms, Professor Bridwell trotted up the stairs. Upon seeing him, Gretchen pushed open the doors and stepped outside.