"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.
"Why it's cooler than I had thought," she remarked.
The professor's smile fairly warmed her heart. "Let's hurry along
then," he said between chattering teeth, "I know just the place this
evening. They'll even have a fire, and if we're quick about it, we
might find a table close enough to feel its warmth."
Side by side, they walked out through the plaza. The clouds had
descended, muffling the sounds of the city beyond. They continued
through the campus gates into the nearby streets. The neighborhood was
uncrowded, since so many students had left for their holidays, and
though there were a few groups of people walking to and fro, dressed
warmly against the weather, only the occasional carriage rattled by.
Professor Bridwell led the way into a side street, where they were
greeted by a brightly lit café.
"I had no idea...," Gretchen began.
"Of a French café so near campus?" the professor finished for her.
"It's quite new." He pulled open the door and the sounds of bustling
crowds and gay voices greeted them. "I say," he continued, "the place
appears to have been discovered." Gretchen followed him in while he
held the door, and stood by removing her gloves while he conferred with
the head waiter. She glanced up as she folded her gloves in time to
see the man wisk a bill into his apron pocket.
"Follow me, monsieur."
The professor took Gretchen's arm and led her along. Their table was
in the back and, as Professor Bridwell had hoped, it was close by an
open brick fireplace filled with a roaring blaze of crackling oak logs.
She sat in silent attendance while their waiter recited, in heavily
accented English, a seemingly unending speech upon the specialities of
the house.
Gretchen lost the particulars mid-way, and her eyes strayed beyond him
to the fire. "I'm quite overwhelmed," she exclaimed when he had
finished and stood poised before them. "Please--do what you think
best, Professor."
Professor Bridwell surprised her then, by leaning back with the casual
air of one who knows what he is about, and held forth in what seemed,
to Gretchen's ear, flawless French.
"Bravo, Professor," she chimed when he had finished. "Your French is
beautiful."
The professor seemed somewhat embarrassed then, and smoothly turned the
conversation to the decor. The room was hardly what Gretchen should
have expected of a French café--it was done in stark white, with high
rafters of carved wood, but upon the walls hung gorgeously worked
Persian carpets which served to bring the ceiling down and lend
intimacy to the room; and to muffle the sound of so many conversing
guests. Their entrees arrived in due course--a delightful poached
white fish in delicate sauce, which they ate practically in silence,
but for the occasional comment upon the food. He asked after her
health, and heard the small-talk of the day, then listened with
interest to an abridged account of her life, interjecting only
occasional questions to clarify certain points. She stopped short of
revealing the estrangement of her family, but dwelt upon her years at
university.
Gretchen at length noticed the emptiness of her plate and declared that
the fish positively melted in one's mouth. Professor Bridwell replied
that he would send compliments to the chef. His smile grew gradually
as he said this, with a hint of something further he wished to add, but
he stopped.
"Was there something else?" she asked, setting her silver carefully
atop her empty plate.
"No, nothing," he laughed, putting down his own silver.
Presently, their plates were cleared away and the professor ordered a
liqueur with coffee. Gretchen declined a liqueur, having drunk enough
wine already to raise her color slightly--she settled for coffee and a
small gateau.
"You mentioned that you play the viola," he said, taking up his liqueur
with one hand. "Have you been playing long?"
"Since I was sixteen," she replied, stirring cream into her coffee. "I
began with the violin as a child--I really can't recall at what age.
When I was sixteen I went away for a summer, and..." she stopped to
look at him for an instant, tapping upon her gateau with her fork.
"Well, I met a young man who played the viola, and I was quite--quite
taken with his instrument. It seemed to suit me, really."
"I would say it does," the professor agreed. "Unusual, especially for
a woman--mildly exotic even...and intriguing..."
They continued conversing about the viola and the piano, telling each
other about their favorite pieces, comparing composers. Gretchen had
never played the piano seriously herself--she found it frustrating and
was amazed that anyone could master such an instrument.
"It requires such independence of the hands," she said. "I've tried,
but I could never play anything worth mentioning. Oh, the organ is
another one that I simply cannot fathom. Beautiful to hear, it's quite
comical to watch--and seems so awkward to play."
"Neither is really any more complicated than the viola, I should
think," the professor replied. He had been twirling his glass for some
time, but he stopped and removed his hand from the table. "Think of
the dexterity required to control your bow, and the simultaneous
imparting of vibrato while retaining correct intonation. It's quite as
remarkable."
"I see what you mean, certainly. It all seems easy with long practice."
"Do you sing alto as well?"