Patty's class-room methods were the result of a wide experience in the
professorial type of mind. By her senior year she had reduced the matter
of recitation to a system, and could foretell with unvarying precision
the day she would be called on and the question she would be asked. Her
tactics varied with the subject and the instructor, and were the result
of a penetration and knowledge of human nature that might have
accomplished something in a worthier cause.
In chemistry, for example, her instructor was a man who had outlived any
early illusions in regard to the superior conscientiousness of girls
over boys. He was not by nature a suspicious person, but a long
experience in teaching had inculcated an inordinate wariness which was
sometimes out of season. He allowed no napping in his classes, and those
who did not pay attention suffered. Patty discovered his weakness early
in the year, and planned her campaign accordingly. As long as she did
not understand the experiment in hand, she would watch him with a face
beaming with intelligence; but when she did understand, and wished to
recite, she would let her eyes wander to the window with a dreamy,
far-away smile, and, being asked a question, would come back to the
realities of chemistry with a start, and, after a moment of ostentatious
pondering, make a brilliant recitation. It must be confessed that her
moments of abstraction were rare; she was far too often radiantly
interested.
In French her tactics were exactly opposite. The instructor, with all
the native politeness of his race, called on those only who caught his
eye and appeared willing and anxious to recite. This made the matter
comparatively simple, but still required considerable finesse. Patty
dropped her pen, spilled the pages from her note-book, tied her
shoe-string, and even sneezed opportunely in order not to catch his eye
at inconvenient moments. The rest of the class, who were not artists,
contented themselves with merely lowering their eyes as he looked along
the line--a method which in Patty's scornful estimation said as plainly
as words, "Please don't call on me; I don't know."
But with Professor Cairnsley, who taught philosophy, it was more
difficult to form a working hypothesis. He had grown old in the service
of the college, and after thirty years' experience of girl-nature he was
still as unsuspiciously trustful as he had been in the beginning. Taking
it for granted that his pupils were as interested in the contemplation
of philosophic truths as he himself, the professor conducted his
recitations without a suspicion of guile, and based his procedure
entirely upon the inspiration of the moment. The key to his method had
always remained a mystery, and several generations of classes had
searched for it in vain. Some averred that he called on every seventh
girl; others, that he drew lots. Patty triumphantly announced early in
the course that she had discovered the secret at last--that on Monday he
called on the red-haired girls; on Tuesday, those with yellow hair; on
Wednesday and Thursday, those with brown; and on Friday, those with
black. But this solution, like the others, was found to break down in
actual practice; and Patty, for one, discovered that it required all her
ingenuity, and even a good deal of studying, to maintain her reputation
for brilliancy in Professor Cairnsley's classes. And she cared about
maintaining it, for she liked the professor and was one of his favorite
pupils. She had known his wife before she entered college, and she often
called upon them in their home, and, in short, exemplified the ideal
relations between faculty and students.
Owing to the pressure of many interests, Patty's researches into
philosophy were not as deep as the intentions of the course, but she had
a very good working knowledge, which, in its details, would have
astonished Professor Cairnsley could he have got behind the scenes.
Though her knowledge was not based strictly on the text-book, her
reputation in the class was good, and, as Patty admitted with a sigh,
"It's a great strain on the imagination to keep up a reputation in
philosophy."
It had been established, indeed, as far back as her sophomore year, when
the psychology class was awed into silence by its first introduction to
the abstractions of science, and Patty alone had dared to lift her
voice. The professor, one morning, had been placidly lecturing along on
the subject of sensation, and in the course of the lecture had remarked:
"It is probable that the individual experiences all the primary
sensations during the first few months of infancy, and that in after
life there is no such thing as a new sensation."
"Professor Cairnsley," Patty piped up, "did you ever shoot the chutes?"
The ice was broken at last, and the class felt at home, even in the
somewhat deep waters of philosophy; and Patty, however undeservedly, had
gained the credit of having a deeper insight than most into matters
psychical.
And so into her senior year, when she entered upon the study of ethics,
she carried along an unearned and fragile reputation, built upon
subterfuges and likely to crumble at the slightest touch. She had
maintained it very creditably up to the Christmas vacation, and had
argued upon the ultimate ground of moral obligation and the origin of
conscience quite as intelligently as though she had previously read what
the text-book had to say on the subject. But when they had commenced the
study of specific theologies, based upon definite historical facts,
Patty found her imagination of little use, and on several occasions it
had been purely good luck that had saved her from exposure. Once the
bell had rung at an opportune moment, and twice she had been able to
avert a direct answer by leading the discussion into side issues. She
realized, however, that fortune would not always favor her, and as the
professor usually forgot to call the roll, she formed the nefarious
practice of cutting class when she did not have her lesson.
For a week or so in particular, her pressure of work in other directions
(not all of them scholastic) had prevented her from devoting her usual
amount of energy to the task of maintaining her philosophy reputation,
and she had, without conscience, cut ethics several days in succession,
and had failed to comment upon the fact to the professor.
"What did he lecture about in ethics--those recitations I missed?" she
inquired of Priscilla, one afternoon.
"Swedenborg."
"Swedenborg," repeated Patty, dreamily. "He got up a new religion,
didn't he? Or was it a new system of gymnastics? I've heard about him,
but I don't seem to remember any details."
"You'd better make him up; he's important."
"I dare say; but I've lived twenty-one years without knowing about him,
and I can wait a month longer. I'm saving up Confucius and the Jesuits
for examination-time, and I'll add Swedenborg to the list."
"You'd better not. Professor Cairnsley's fond of him, and is likely to
pop a special examination at any moment."
"Not Professor Cairnsley," laughed Patty. "He doesn't want to waste the
time. He's going to lecture straight on for two weeks--nice man; I see
it in his eye. What I admire in a professor is a good, steady, plodding
disposition that doesn't go in for sensational surprises."
"You'll find yourself mistaken some day," warned Priscilla.
"No danger, my dear Cassandra. I know Professor Cairnsley, and Professor
Cairnsley thinks he knows me; and we just get along together
beautifully. I wish there were more like him," Patty added with a sigh.
Professor Cairnsley began a lecture the next morning which was evidently
calculated to extend through the hour, and Patty cast a triumphant
glance at Priscilla as she unscrewed the top of her fountain-pen and
settled down to work. In the course of the lecture, however, he had
occasion to refer to Swedenborg, and, pausing a moment, he casually
asked a girl on the front seat for a résumé of Swedenborg's philosophy.
She, unfortunately confusing him with Schopenhauer, glibly attributed to
him doctrines which would have outraged his soul could he have heard
them. It is written that the worm will turn, and the professor's bland
smile deserted him as he passed the question to a second girl without
much better result. The class in general had evidently been laboring
under Patty's delusion that the time had not come in which to learn back
notes. Amazed and indignant, he pursued the matter with a persistency
and a rancor he seldom showed. He began going straight through the
class, growing more and more sarcastic with each recitation.
As she saw him finish with the row in front and begin on her row, Patty
knew that she was doomed. She racked her brain for some memory of
Swedenborg. He was a name to her and nothing more. He might have been an
ancient Greek or a modern American, for all she knew. As Professor
Cairnsley came along the line he was gradually eliciting from the
terrified class the superficial points which were more or less common to
all philosophers. Patty perceived that her imagination could not help
her out, that for once the placid professor was on the war-path, and
that Swedenborg, and nothing but Swedenborg, would serve. She cast an
agonized glance up at Priscilla, and Priscilla grinned back with "I told
you so" written on every feature.
Patty looked about desperately. The lecture-room was shaped like an
amphitheater, with part of the seats on a level with the main floor,
and the rest rising in tiers. Patty sat on the main floor, well toward
the rear. She could barely see the professor's head, but he was coming
irrevocably. She did not have to see very clearly to know that. The girl
before her answered wildly; the professor frowned, and, looking down at
his roll-book, slowly and deliberately made a zero.
When he raised his eyes again Patty's seat was empty. She was kneeling
on the floor, with her head bowed behind the girl in front. The
unconscious professor passed over her bent head and called on the girl
on the other side, who coughed hysterically once or twice, and flunked
flat; and while he was crediting the fact in his roll-book Patty resumed
her seat. A ripple of laughter ran around the room; the professor
frowned, and remarked that he saw no occasion for amusement. The bell
rang, and the class somewhat sheepishly filed out.
That afternoon Patty burst into the study where Priscilla and Georgie
Merriles were making tea. "Did you ever think I had much of a
conscience?" she demanded.
"Never thought it was your strong point," said Georgie.
"Well, I've got a perfectly tremendous one! What do you think I've been
doing?"
"Making up your ethics lectures," suggested Priscilla.
"Worse than that."
"You _haven't_ been to gym, Patty!" said Georgie.
"Goodness, no! I'm not so far gone as that. Well, I'll tell you. I met
Professor Cairnsley by the gate and walked in with him, and, if you
please, he complimented me on my work in ethics!"
"That ought to have been embarrassing," said Georgie.
"It was," acknowledged Patty. "I told him I didn't really know as much
as he thought I did."
"What did he say?"
"He said I was too modest. He's such a trustful old man, you know, that
you sort of hate to deceive him. And what do you think? I told him about
the seat!"
Priscilla smiled approvingly upon her usually recreant room-mate. "Well,
Patty, you certainly are better than I gave you credit for!"
"Thank you," murmured Patty.
"I begin to believe you _have_ got a conscience," said Georgie.
"An excellent one," said Patty, complacently.
"It pays in the end," said Priscilla.
"It does," agreed Patty. "Professor Cairnsley said he would explain
Swedenborg to me himself, and he invited me over to dinner to-night!"
V