“Nineteen years old! Dearie me!”
“You see I’m quite old enough to know my own mind. Have you a nine o’clock class this morning?”
“I have.”
“Well, hasten, Professor, or you’ll get a tardy mark. It’s ten minutes of nine now.”
He jumped up from his chair and started for the door.
“Don’t you want this notebook?” she called, taking up the pad beside his plate.
“Yes, oh, yes, those are my notes. Where have I laid my glasses? Quick, my dear! I must not be late.”
“On your head,” said she.
She followed him to the hall, reminded him of his hat, his umbrella, restored the notebook, and finally saw him off, his thin back, with its scholarly stoop, disappearing down the street.
Bambina went back to the breakfast table, and took up the paper. She read all the want “ads” headed “female.”
“Nothing promising here,” she said. “I wonder if I could bring myself to teach little kids one, two, and one, two, three, in a select dancing class? I’d loathe it.”
