It was a breathless Indian summer day. Every window in number ten Main Building was open, but there was never a breeze to stir the heavy air or break the spell of delicious languor that hung over the class in "English Essayists of the Nineteenth Century." The new associate professor in English had the course. His name was John Elliot Eaton, after which he could write several mystic combinations of letters, indicating his high rank in the world of scholarship. He was lecturing this hot morning in his rapid, jerky fashion that made note-taking almost an impossibility. He did not seem to mind the weather in the least; if anything he talked faster and more eloquently than usual. Presently he came to a sudden halt, and glancing ominously at the clock made a dreaded announcement.