That is where the art of teaching comes in and where Carl excelled.  He could make even the “dismal science,” as Carlyle called economics, interesting, as was proved by the large numbers of men who elected his courses, despite the fact that he made them work hard to pass.  Nor does this take into account original research and the writing of books like Carl’s scholarly work on The History of Property, on which he had been slaving for three solid summers and hundreds of nights during termtime; not to speak of attending committee meetings constantly, and the furnace even more constantly.  The latter, like making beds, is not mentioned in the official catalogue.  I suppose such details would not become one’s dignity.

As in every other occupation, some members of the Faculty do as little work as the law requires; but most of them are an extremely busy lot, even though they may, when it suits their schedule better, take exercise in the morning instead of the afternoon—­an astonishing state of affairs that always scandalizes the so-called tired business man.

As for Carl, I was seeing so little of him except at mealtimes that I became rather piqued at first, being a bride.  I felt sure he did not love me any more!

“Do you really think you have a right to devote so much time to outside work?” I asked one evening when I was washing the dishes and he was starting off for the university library to write on his great book.—­It was the indirect womanly method of saying:  “Oh, please devote just a little more time to me!”—­“You ought to rest and be fresh for your classroom work,” I added.

Being a man he did not see it.

“The way to advance in the teaching profession,” he answered, with his veiled twinkle, “is to neglect it.  It doesn’t matter how poorly you teach, so long as you write dull books for other professors to read.  That’s why it is called scholarship—­because you slight your scholars.”

“Oh, I’m sick of all this talk about scholarship!” I cried.  “What does it mean anyway?”

“Scholarship, my dear,” said Carl, “means finding out all there is to know about something nobody else cares about, and then telling it in such a way that nobody else can find out.  If you are understood you are popular; if you are popular you are no scholar.  And if you’re no scholar, how can you become a full professor?  Now, my child, it is all clear to you.”

And, dismissing me and the subject with a good-night kiss, he brushed his last year’s hat and hurried off, taking the latchkey.

So much for otium.

“But where does the dignity come in?” I asked Carl one day when he was sharpening his lawnmower and thus neglecting his lawn tennis; for, like a Freshman, I still had much to learn about quaint old college customs.

“Why, in being called p’fessor by the tradesmen,” said Carl.  “Also in renting a doctor’s hood for academic pee-rades at three dollars a pee-rade, instead of buying a new hat for the rest of the year.  Great thing—­dignity!”