Shreve stood in the door, putting his collar on, his glasses glinting rosily, as though he had washed them with his face. “You taking a cut this morning?”

“Is it that late?”

He looked at his watch. “Bell in two minutes.”

“I didn’t know it was that late.” He was still looking at the watch, his mouth shaping. “I’ll have to hustle. I cant stand another cut. The dean told me last week⁠—” He put the watch back into his pocket. Then I quit talking.

“You’d better slip on your pants and run,” he said. He went out.

I got up and moved about, listening to him through the wall. He entered the sitting-room, toward the door.

“Aren’t you ready yet?”

“Not yet. Run along. I’ll make it.”