Violists | Page 8

to one side. "But I needed some place
instantly when I arrived here. I will probably find smaller digs in a year
or so, when I've come to know the city more intimately."
"Indeed," Gretchen answered, returning his smile. "I quite understand
how one needs permanent lodgings--the more quickly one can find
them in a strange city, why, the quicker one is able to settle into life,
get one's bearings in a foreign port."
"So true," he replied with a firm nod.
A few moments later, a juncture seemed to have been reached in their
conversation. Their coffees were at an end, and neither of them had
touched their cups for what seemed ages, so engaged had they become
in their conversation.
"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