CHAPTER XVII
HUGH’S depression was not continuous by any means. He was much too young and too healthy not to find life an en¬ joyable experience most of the time. Disillusion¬ ment followed disillusionment, each one painful and dispiriting in itself, but they came at long enough intervals for him to find a great deal of pleasure in between.
Also, for the first time since he had been trans¬ ferred from Ailing’s section in Latin, he was taking genuine interest in a course. Having decided to major in English, he found that he was required to take a composition course the second half of his sophomore year. His instructor was Professor Henley, known as Jimmie Henley among the stu¬ dents, a man in his middle thirties, spare, neat in his dress, sharp with his tongue, apt to say what he thought in terms so plain that not even the stupidest undergraduate could fail to understand him. His hazel-brown eyes were capable of a friendly twin¬ kle, but they had a way of darkening suddenly and snapping that kept his students constantly on the
alert. There was little of the professor about him but a great deal of the teacher.
