In the first halcyon days at Mrs. Paynter’s, before the board question ever came up at all, the iron-clad Schedule of Hours under which he was composing his great work had stood like this:
8.20 Breakfast 8.40 Evolutionary Sociology 1.30 Dinner 2 Evolutionary Sociology 7 Supper 7.20 to 1.30 Evolutionary Sociology
But the course of true love never yet ran smooth, and this schedule was too ideal to stand. First the Post had come along and nicked a clean hour out of it, and now his Body had unexpectedly risen and claimed yet another hour. And, beyond even this ... some devilish whim had betrayed him to-night into offering his time for the service and uses of the landlady’s daughter in the puling matter of algebra.
No ... no! He would not put that in. The girl could not be so selfish as to take advantage of his over-generous impulse. She must understand that his time belonged to the ages and the race, not to the momentary perplexities of a high school dunce.... At the worst it would be only five minutes here and there—say ten minutes a week; forty minutes a month. No, no! He would not put that in.
But the hour of Bodily Exercise could not be so evaded. It must go in. On land or sea there was no help for that. For thirty days henceforward at the least—and a voice within him whispered that it would be for much longer—his Schedule must stand like this:
8.20 Breakfast 8.40 Evolutionary Sociology 1.30 Dinner 2 Evolutionary Sociology 4.45 to 5.15 Open-Air Pedestrianism 5.15 to 6.15 The Post 6.15 to 6.45 Klinker’s Exercises for all Parts of the Body 7 Supper 7.20 Evolutionary Sociology
Hand clasped in his hair, Queed stared long at this wreckage with a sense of foreboding and utter despondency. Doubtless Mr. Pat, who was at that moment peacefully pulling a pipe over his last galleys at the Post office, would have been astonished to learn what havoc his accursed fleas had wrought with the just expectations of posterity.
Of Charles Gardiner West, President-Elect of Blaines College, and his Ladies Fair: all in Mr. West’s Lighter Manner.
The closing German of the Thursday Cotillon, hard upon the threshold of a late Lent, was a dream of pure delight. Six of them in the heart of every season since 1871, these Germans have become famous wherever the light fantastic toe of aristocracy trips and eke is tripped. They are the badge of quality, and the test of it, the sure scaling-rod by which the frightened debutante may measure herself at last, to ask of her mirror that night, with who can say what tremors: “Am I a success?” Over these balls strangers go mad. They come from immense distances to attend them, sometimes with superciliousness; are instantly captivated; and returning to their homes, wherever they may be, sell out their businesses for a song and move on, to get elected if they can, which does not necessarily follow.