And he had not heard the last of it.

He turned his grades in on the Monday following the Friday closing of the semester. It was the part of teaching he most disliked, and he always got it out of the way as soon as he could. He gave Walker his F and thought no more about the matter. He spent most of the week between semesters reading the first drafts of two theses due for final presentation in the spring. They were awkwardly done, and they needed much of his attention. The Walker incident was crowded from his mind.

But two weeks after the second semester started he was again reminded of it. He found one morning in his mailbox a note from Gordon Finch asking him to drop by the office at his convenience for a chat.

The friendship between Gordon Finch and William Stoner had reached a point that all such relationships, carried on long enough, come to; it was casual, deep, and so guardedly intimate that it was almost impersonal. They seldom saw each other socially, although occasionally Caroline Finch made a perfunctory call on Edith. While they talked they remembered the years of their youth, and each thought of the other as he had been at another time.

In his early middle age Finch had the erect soft bearing of one who tries vigorously to keep his weight under control; his face was heavy and as yet unlined, though his jowls were beginning to sag and the flesh was gathering in rolls on the back of his neck. His hair was very thin, and he had begun to comb it so that the baldness would not be readily apparent.

On the afternoon that Stoner stopped by his office, they spoke for a few moments casually about their families; Finch maintained the easy convention of pretending that Stoner’s marriage was a normal one, and Stoner professed his conventional disbelief that Gordon and Caroline could be the parents of two children, the younger of which was already in kindergarten.

After they had made their automatic gestures toward their casual intimacy, Finch looked out his window distractedly and said, “Now, what was it I wanted to talk to you about? Oh, yes. The dean of the Graduate College—he thought, since we were friends, I ought to mention it to you. Nothing of any importance.” He looked at a note on his memo book. “Just an irate graduate student who thinks he got screwed in one of your classes last semester.”

“Walker,” Stoner said. “Charles Walker.”

Finch nodded. “That’s the one. What’s the story on him?”

Stoner shrugged. “As far as I could tell, he didn’t do any of the reading assigned—it was my seminar in the Latin Tradition. He tried to fake his seminar report, and when I gave him the chance either to do another one or produce a copy of his paper, he refused. I had no alternative but to flunk him.”

Finch nodded again. “I figured it was something like that. God knows, I wish they wouldn’t waste my time with stuff like this; but it has to be checked out, as much for your protection as anything else.”

Stoner asked, “Is there some—special difficulty here?”

“No, no,” Finch said. “Not at all. Just a complaint. You know how these things go. As a matter of fact, Walker received a C in the first course he took here as a graduate student; he could be kicked out of the program right now if we wanted to do it. But I think we’ve about decided to let him take his preliminary orals next month, and let that tell the story. I’m sorry I even had to bother you about it.”

They talked for a few moments about other things. Then, just as Stoner was about to leave, Finch detained him casually.

“Oh, there was something else I wanted to mention to you. The president and the board have finally decided that something’s going to have to be done about Claremont. So I guess, beginning next year, I’ll be dean of Arts and Sciences—officially.”

“I’m glad, Gordon,” Stoner said. “It’s about time.”

“So that means we’re going to have to get a new chairman of the department. Do you have any thoughts on it?”

“No,” Stoner said, “I really haven’t thought of it at all.”

“We can either go outside the department and bring in somebody new, or we can make one of the present men chairman. What I’m trying to find out is, if we did choose someone from the department—Well, do you have your eyes on the job?”

Stoner thought for a moment. “I hadn’t thought about it, but—no. No, I don’t think I’d want it.”

Finch’s relief was so obvious that Stoner smiled. “Good. I didn’t think you would. It means a lot of horse-shit. Entertaining and socializing and—” He looked away from Stoner. “I know you don’t go in for that sort of thing. But since old Sloane died, and since Huggins and what’s-his-name, Cooper, retired last year, you’re the senior member of the department. But if you haven’t been casting covetous eyes, then—”

“No,” Stoner said definitely. “I’d probably be a rotten chairman. I neither expect nor want the appointment.”

“Good,” Finch said. “Good. That simplifies things a great deal.”

They said their good-bys, and Stoner did not think of the conversation again for some time.

Charles Walker’s preliminary oral comprehensives were scheduled for the middle of March; somewhat to Stoner’s surprise, he received a note from Finch informing him that he would be a member of the three-man committee who would examine him. He reminded Finch that he had flunked Walker, that Walker had taken the flunk personally, and he asked to be relieved of this particular duty.

“Regulations,” Finch answered with a sigh. “You know how it is. The committee is made up of the candidate’s adviser, one professor who has had him in a graduate seminar, and one outside his field of specialization. Lomax is the adviser, you’re the only one he’s had a graduate seminar from, and I’ve picked the new man, Jim Holland, for the one outside his specialty. Dean Rutherford of the Graduate College and I will be sitting in ex-officio. I’ll try to make it as painless as possible.”

But it was an ordeal that could not be made painless. Though Stoner wished to ask as few questions as possible, the rules that governed the preliminary oral were inflexible; each professor was allowed forty-five minutes to ask the candidate any questions that he wished, though other professors habitually joined in.

On the afternoon set for the examination Stoner came deliberately late to the seminar room on the third floor of Jesse Hall. Walker was seated at the end of a long, highly polished table; the four examiners already present—Finch, Lomax, the new man, Holland, and Henry Rutherford—were ranged down the table from him. Stoner slipped in the door and took a chair at the end of the table opposite Walker. Finch and Holland nodded to him; Lomax, slumped in his chair, stared straight ahead, tapping his long white fingers on the mirrorlike surface of the table. Walker stared down the length of the table, his head held stiff and high in cold disdain.

Rutherford cleared his throat. “Ah, Mr.”—he consulted a sheet of paper in front of him—”Mr. Stoner.” Rutherford was a slight thin gray man with round shoulders; his eyes and brows dropped at the outer corners, so that his expression was always one of gentle hopelessness. Though he had known Stoner for many years, he never remembered his name. He cleared his throat again. “We were just about to begin.”

Stoner nodded, rested his forearms on the table, clasped his fingers, and contemplated them as Rutherford’s voice droned through the formal preliminaries of the oral examination.

Mr. Walker was being examined (Rutherford’s voice dropped to a steady, uninflected hum) to determine his ability to continue in the doctoral program in the Department of English at the University of Missouri. This was an examination which all doctoral candidates underwent, and it was designed not only to judge the candidate’s general fitness, but also to determine strengths and weaknesses, so that his future course of study could be profitably guided. Three results were possible: a pass, a conditional pass, and a failure. Rutherford described the terms of these eventualities, and without looking up performed the ritualistic introduction of the examiners and the candidate. Then he pushed the sheet of paper away from him and looked hopelessly at those around him.

“The custom is,” he said softly, “for the candidate’s thesis adviser to begin the questioning. Mr.”—he glanced at the paper—”Mr. Lomax is, I believe, Wr. Walker’s adviser. So …”

Lomax’s head jerked back as if he had been suddenly awakened from a doze. He glanced around the table, blinking, a little smile on his lips; but his eyes were shrewd and alert.

“Mr. Walker, you are planning a dissertation on Shelley and the Hellenistic Ideal. It is unlikely that you have thought through your subject yet, but would you begin by giving us some of the background, your reason for choosing it, and so forth.”

Walker nodded and began swiftly to speak. “I intend to trace Shelley’s first rejection of Godwinian necessitarianism for a more or less Platonic ideal, in the ‘Hymn to Intellectual Beauty,’ through the mature use of that ideal, in Prometheus Unbound, as a comprehensive synthesis of his earlier atheism, radicalism, Christianity, and scientific necessitarianism, and ultimately to account for the decay of the ideal in such a late work as Hellas. It is to my mind an important topic for three reasons: First, it shows the quality of Shelley’s mind, and hence leads us into a better understanding of his poetry. Second, it demonstrates the leading philosophical and literary conflicts of the early nineteenth century, and hence enlarges our understanding and appreciation of Romantic poetry. And third, it is a subject that might have a peculiar relevance to our own time, a time in which we face many of the same conflicts that confronted Shelley and his contemporaries.”

Stoner listened, and as he listened his astonishment grew. He could not believe that this was the same man who had taken his seminar, whom he thought he knew. Walker’s presentation was lucid, forthright, and intelligent; at times it was almost brilliant. Lomax was right; if the dissertation fulfilled its promise, it would be brilliant. Hope, warm and exhilarating, rushed upon him, and he leaned forward attentively.

Walker talked upon the subject of his dissertation for perhaps ten minutes and then abruptly stopped. Quickly Lomax asked another question, and Walker responded at once. Gordon Finch caught Stoner’s eye and gave him a look of mild inquiry; Stoner smiled slightly, self-deprecatingly, and gave a small shrug of his shoulders.

When Walker stopped again, Jim Holland spoke immediately. He was a thin young man, intense and pale, with slightly protuberant blue eyes; he spoke with a deliberate slowness, with a voice that seemed always to tremble before a forced restraint. “Mr. Walker, you mentioned a bit earlier Godwin’s necessitarianism. I wonder if you could make a connection between that and the phenomenalism of John Locke?” Stoner remembered that Holland was an eighteenth-century man.

There was a moment of silence. Walker turned to Holland, removed the round glasses, and polished them; his eyes blinked and stared, at random. He put them back on and blinked again. “Would you repeat the question, please.”

Holland started to speak, but Lomax interrupted. “Jim,” he said affably, “do you mind if I extend the question a bit?” He turned quickly to Walker before Holland could answer. “Mr. Walker, proceeding from the implications of Professor Holland’s question—namely, that Godwin accepted Locke’s theory of the sensational nature of knowledge—the tabula rasa, and all that—and that Godwin believed with Locke that judgment and knowledge falsified by the accidents of passion and the inevitability of ignorance could be rectified by education—given these implications, would you comment on Shelley’s principle of knowledge—specifically, the principle of beauty—enunciated in the final stanzas of ‘Adonais’?”

Holland leaned back in his chair, a puzzled frown on his face. Walker nodded and said rapidly, “Though the opening stanzas of ‘Adonais,’ Shelley’s tribute to his friend and peer, John Keats, are conventionally classical, what with their allusions to the Mother, the Hours, to Urania and so forth, and with their repetitive invocations—the really classical moment does not appear until the final stanzas, which are, in effect, a sublime hymn to the eternal Principle of Beauty. If, for a moment, we may focus our attention upon these famous lines:

Life, like a dome of many-colored glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments.

“The symbolism implicit in these lines is not clear until we take the lines in their context. ‘The One remains,’ Shelley writes a few lines earlier, ‘the many change and pass.’ And we are reminded of Keat’s equally famous lines,

‘Beauty is truth, truth Beauty,’—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

“The principle, then, is Beauty; but beauty is also knowledge. And it is a conception that has its roots …”

Walker’s voice continued, fluent and sure of itself, the words emerging from his rapidly moving mouth almost as if—Stoner started, and the hope that had begun in him died as abruptly as it had been born. For a moment he felt almost physically ill. He looked down at the table and saw between his arms the image of his face reflected in the high polish of the walnut top. The image was dark, and he could not make out its features; it was as if he saw a ghost glimmering unsubstantially out of a hardness, coming to meet him.

Lomax finished his questioning, and Holland began. It was, Stoner admitted, a masterful performance; unobtrusively, with great charm and good humor, Lomax managed it all. Sometimes, when Holland asked a question, Lomax pretended a good-natured puzzlement and asked for a clarification. At other times, apologizing for his own enthusiasm, he followed up one of Holland’s questions with a speculation of his own, drawing Walker into the discussion, so that it seemed that he was an actual participant. He rephrased questions (always apologetically), changing them so that the original intent was lost in the elucidation. He engaged Walker in what seemed to be elaborately theoretical arguments, although he did most of the talking. And finally, still apologizing, he cut into Holland’s questions with questions of his own that led Walker where he wanted him to go.

During this time Stoner did not speak. He listened to the talk that swirled around him; he gazed at Finch’s face, which had become a heavy mask; he looked at Rutherford, who sat with his eyes closed, his head nodding; and he looked at Holland’s bewilderment, at Walker’s courteous disdain, and at Lomax’s feverish animation. He was waiting to do what he knew he had to do, and he was waiting with a dread and an anger and a sorrow that grew more intense with every minute that passed. He was glad that none of their eyes met his own as he gazed at them.

Finally Holland’s period of questioning was over. As if he somehow participated in the dread that Stoner felt, Finch glanced at his watch and nodded. He did not speak.

Stoner took a deep breath. Still looking at the ghost of his face in the mirrorlike finish of the tabletop, he said expressionlessly, “Mr. Walker, I’m going to ask you a few questions about English literature. They will be simple questions, and they will not require elaborate answers. I shall start early and I shall proceed chronologically, so far as time will allow me. Will you begin by describing to me the principles of Anglo-Saxon versification?”

“Yes, sir,” Walker said. His face was frozen. “To begin with, the Anglo-Saxon poets, existing as they did in the Dark Ages, did not have the advantages of sensibility as did later poets in the English tradition. Indeed, I should say that their poetry was characterized by primitivism. Nevertheless, within this primitivism there is potential, though perhaps hidden to some eyes, there is potential that subtlety of feeling that is to characterize—”

“Mr. Walker,” Stoner said, “I asked for the principles of versification. Can you give them to me?”

“Well, sir,” Walker said, “it is very rough and irregular. The versification, I mean.”

“Is that all you can tell me about it?”

“Mr. Walker,” Lomax said quickly—a little wildly, Stoner thought—”this roughness you speak of—could you account for this, give the—”

“No,” Stoner said firmly, looking at no one. “I want my question answered. Is that all you can tell me about Anglo-Saxon versification?”

“Well, sir,” Walker said; he smiled, and the smile became a nervous giggle. “Frankly, I haven’t had my required course in Anglo-Saxon yet, and I hesitate to discuss such matters without that authority.”

“Very well,” Stoner said. “Let’s skip Anglo-Saxon literature. Can you name for me a medieval drama that had any influence in the development of Renaissance drama?”

Walker nodded. “Of course, all medieval dramas, in their own way, led into the high accomplishment of the Renaissance. It is difficult to realize that out of the barren soil of the Middle Ages the drama of Shakespeare was, only a few years later, to flower and—”

“Mr. Walker, I am asking simple questions. I must insist upon simple answers. I shall make the question even simpler. Name three medieval dramas.”

“Early or late, sir?” He had taken his glasses off and was polishing them furiously.

“Any three, Mr. Walker.”

“There are so many,” Walker said. “It’s difficult to—There’s Everyman …”

“Can you name any more?”

“No, sir,” Walker said. “I must confess to a weakness in the areas that you—”

“Can you name any other titles—just the titles—of any of the literary works of the Middle Ages?”

Walker’s hands were trembling. “As I have said, sir, I must confess to a weakness in—”

“Then we shall go on to the Renaissance. What genre do you feel most confident of in this period, Mr. Walker?”

“The”—Walker hesitated and despite himself looked supplicatingly at Lomax—”the poem, sir. Or—the drama. The drama, perhaps.”

“The drama then. What is the first blank verse tragedy in English, Mr. Walker?”

“‘The first?” Walker licked his lips. “Scholarship is divided on the question, sir. I should hesitate to—”

“Can you name any drama of significance before Shakespeare?”

“Certainly, sir,” Walker said. “There’s Marlowe—the mighty line—”

“Name some plays of Marlowe.”

With an effort Walker pulled himself together. “There is, of course, the justly famous Dr. Faust. And—and the— The Jew of Malfi.”

“Faustus and The Jew of Malta. Can you name any more?”

“Frankly, sir, those are the only two plays that I have had a chance to reread in the last year or so. So I would prefer not to—”

“All right. Tell me something about The Jew of Malta.”

“Mr. Walker,” Lomax cried out. “If I may broaden the question a bit. If you will—”

“No!” Stoner said grimly, not looking at Lomax. “I want answers to my questions. Mr. Walker?”

Walker said desperately, “Marlowe’s mighty line—”

“Let’s forget about the ‘mighty line,’ “ Stoner said wearily. “What happens in the play?”

“Well,” Walker said a little wildly, “Marlowe is attacking the problem of anti-Semitism as it manifested itself in the early sixteenth century. The sympathy, I might even say, the profound sympathy—”

“Never mind, Mr. Walker. Let’s go on to—”

Lomax shouted, “Let the candidate answer the question! Give him time to answer at least.”

“Very well,” Stoner said mildly. “Do you wish to continue with your answer, Mr. Walker?”

Walker hesitated for a moment. “No, sir,” he said.

Relentlessly Stoner continued his questioning. What had been an anger and outrage that included both Walker and Lomax became a kind of pity and sick regret that included them too. After a while it seemed to Stoner that he had gone outside himself, and it was as if he heard a voice going on and on, impersonal and deadly.

At last he heard the voice say, “All right, Mr. Walker. Your period of specialization is the nineteenth century. You seem to know little about the literature of earlier centuries; perhaps you will feel more at ease among the Romantic poets.”

He tried not to look at Walker’s face, but he could not prevent his eyes from rising now and then to see the round, staring mask that faced him with a cold, pale malevolence. Walker nodded curtly.

“You are familiar with Lord Byron’s more important poems, are you not?”

“Of course,” Walker said.

“Then would you care to comment upon ‘English Bards and Scottish Reviewers?’”

Walker looked at him suspiciously for a moment. Then he smiled triumphantly. “Ah, sir,” he said and nodded his head vigorously. “I see. Now I see. You’re trying to trick me. Of course. ‘English Bards and Scottish Reviewers’ is not by Byron at all. It is John Keats’s famous reply to the journalists who attempted to smirch his reputation as a poet, after the publication of his first poems. Very good, sir. Very—”

“All right, Mr. Walker,” Stoner said wearily. “I have no more questions.”

For several moments silence lay upon the group. Then Rutherford cleared his throat, shuffled the papers on the table before him, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Walker. If you will step outside for a few moments and wait, the committee will discuss your examination and let you know its decision.”

In the few moments that it took Rutherford to say what he had to say, Walker recomposed himself. He rose and rested his crippled hand upon the tabletop. He smiled at the group almost condescendingly. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “It has been a most rewarding experience.” He limped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Rutherford sighed. “Well, gentlemen, is there any discussion?”

Another silence came over the room.

Lomax said, “I thought he did quite well on my part of the examination. And he did rather well on Holland’s portion. I must confess that I was somewhat disappointed by the way the latter part of the exam went, but I imagine he was rather tired by that time. He is a good student, but he doesn’t show up as well as he might under pressure.” He flashed an empty, pained smile at Stoner. “And you did press him a bit, Bill. You must admit that. I vote pass.”

Rutherford said, “Mr.—Holland?”

Holland looked from Lomax to Stoner; he was frowning in puzzlement, and his eyes blinked. “But—well, he seemed awfully weak to me. I don’t know exactly how to figure it.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “This is the first orals I’ve sat in on here. I really don’t know what the standards are, but—well, he seemed awfully weak. Let me think about it for a minute.”

Rutherford nodded. “Mr.—Stoner?”

“Fail,” Stoner said. “It’s a clear failure.”

“Oh, come now, Bill,” Lomax cried. “You’re being a bit hard on the boy, aren’t you?”

“No,” Stoner said levelly, his eyes straight before him. “You know I’m not, Holly.”

“What do you mean by that?” Lomax asked; it was as if he were trying to generate feeling in his voice by raising it. “Just what do you mean?”

“Come off it, Holly,” Stoner said tiredly. “The man’s incompetent. There can be no question of that. The questions I asked him were those that should have been asked a fair undergraduate; and he was unable to answer a single one of them satisfactorily. And he’s both lazy and dishonest. In my seminar last semester—”

“Your seminar!” Lomax laughed curtly. “Well, I’ve heard about that. And besides, that’s another matter. The question is, how he did today. And it’s clear”—his eyes narrowed—”it’s clear that he did quite well today until you started in on him.”

“I asked him questions,” Stoner said. “The simplest questions I could imagine. I was prepared to give him every chance.” He paused and said carefully, “You are his thesis adviser, and it is natural that you two should have talked over his thesis subject. So when you questioned him on his thesis he did very well. But when we got beyond that—”

“What do you mean!” Lomax shouted. “Are you suggesting that I—that there was any—”

“I am suggesting nothing, except that in my opinion the candidate did not do an adequate job. I cannot consent to his passing.”

“Look,” Lomax said. His voice had quieted, and he tried to smile. “I can see how I would have a higher opinion of his work than you would. He has been in several of my classes, and—no matter. I’m willing to compromise. Though I think it’s too severe, I’m willing to offer him a conditional pass. That would mean he could review for a couple of semesters, and then he—”

“Well,” Holland said with some relief, “that would seem to be better than giving him a clear pass. I don’t know the man, but it’s obvious that he isn’t ready to—”

“Good,” Lomax said, smiling vigorously at Holland. “Then that’s settled. We’ll—”

“No,” Stoner said. “I must vote for failure.”

“God damn it,” Lomax shouted. “Do you realize what you’re doing, Stoner? Do you realize what you’re doing to the boy?”

“Yes,” Stoner said quietly, “and I’m sorry for him. I am preventing him from getting his degree, and I’m preventing him from teaching in a college or university. Which is precisely what I want to do. For him to be a teacher would be a—disaster.”

Lomax was very still. “That is your final word?” he asked icily.

“Yes,” Stoner said.

Lomax nodded. “Well, let me warn you, Professor Stoner, I do not intend to let the matter drop here. You have made—you have implied certain accusations here today—you have shown a prejudice that—that—”

“Gentlemen, please,” Rutherford said. He looked as if he were going to weep. “Let us keep our perspective. As you know, for the candidate to pass, there must be unanimous consent. Is there no way that we can resolve this difference?”

No one spoke.

Rutherford sighed. “Very well, then, I have no alternative but to declare that—”

“Just a minute.” It was Gordon Finch; during the entire examination he had been so still that the others had nearly forgotten his presence. Now he raised himself a little in his chair and addressed the top of the table in a tired but determined voice. “As acting chairman of the department I am going to make a recommendation. I trust it will be followed. I recommend that we defer the decision until the day after tomorrow. That will give us time to cool off and talk it over.”

“There’s nothing to talk over,” Lomax said hotly. “If Stoner wants to—”

“I have made my recommendation,” Finch said softly, “and it will be followed. Dean Rutherford, I suggest that we inform the candidate of our resolution of this matter.”

They found Walker sitting in perfect ease in the corridor outside the conference room. He held a cigarette negligently in his right hand, and he was looking boredly at the ceiling.

“Mr. Walker,” Lomax called and limped toward him.

Walker stood up; he was several inches taller than Lomax, so that he had to look down at him.

“Mr. Walker, I have been directed to inform you that the committee has been unable to reach agreement concerning your examination; you will be informed the day after tomorrow. But I assure you”—his voice rose—”I assure you that you have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”

Walker stood for a moment looking coolly from one of them to another. “I thank you again, gentlemen, for your consideration.” He caught Stoner’s eye, and the flicker of a smile went across his lips.

Gordon Finch hurried away without speaking to any of them; Stoner, Rutherford, and Holland wandered down the hall together; Lomax remained behind, talking earnestly to Walker.

“Well,” Rutherford said, walking between Stoner and Holland, “it’s an unpleasant business. No matter how you look at it, it’s an unpleasant business.”

“Yes, it is,” Stoner said and turned away from them. He walked down the marble steps, his steps becoming more rapid as he neared the first floor, and went outside. He breathed deeply the smoky fragrance of the afternoon air, and breathed again, as if he were a swimmer emerging from water. Then he walked slowly toward his house.

Early the next afternoon, before he had a chance to get lunch, he received a call from Gordon Finch’s secretary, asking him to come down to the office at once.

Finch was waiting impatiently when Stoner came into the room. He rose and motioned for Stoner to sit in the chair he had drawn beside his desk.

“Is this about the Walker business?” Stoner asked.

“In a way,” Finch replied. “Lomax has asked me for a meeting to try to settle this thing. It’s likely to be unpleasant. I wanted to talk to you for a few minutes alone, before Lomax gets here.” He sat again and for several minutes rocked back and forth in the swivel chair, looking contemplatively at Stoner. He said abruptly, “Lomax is a good man.”

“I know he is,” Stoner said. “In some ways he’s probably the best man in the department.”

As if Stoner had not spoken Finch went on, “He has his problems, but they don’t crop up very often; and when they do he’s usually able to handle them. It’s unfortunate that this business should have come up just now; the timing is awkward as hell. A split in the department right now—” Finch shook his head.

“Gordon,” Stoner said uncomfortably, “I hope you’re not—”

Finch held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. “I wish I had told you this before. But then it wasn’t supposed to be let out, and it wasn’t really official. It’s still supposed to be confidential, but—do you remember a few weeks back our talking about the chairmanship?”

Stoner nodded.

“Well, it’s Lomax. He’s the new head. It’s finished, settled. The suggestion came from upstairs, but I ought to tell you that I went along with it.” He laughed shortly. “Not that I was in a position to do anything else. But even if I had been I would have gone along with it—then. Now I’m not so sure.”

“I see,” Stoner said thoughtfully. After a few moments he continued, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me. I don’t think it would have made any difference, but at least it wasn’t there to cloud the issue.”

“God damn it, Bill,” Finch said. “You’ve got to understand. I don’t give a damn about Walker, or Lomax, or—but you’re an old friend. Look. I think you’re right in this. Damn it, I know you’re right. But let’s be practical. Lomax is taking this very seriously, and he’s not going to let it drop. And if it comes to a fight it’s going to be awkward as hell. Lomax can be vindictive; you know that as well as I do. He can’t fire you, but he can do damn near everything else. And to a certain extent I’ll have to go along with him.” He laughed again, bitterly. “Hell, to a large extent I’ll have to go along with him. If a dean starts reversing the decisions of a department head he has to fire him from his chairmanship. Now, if Lomax got out of line, I could remove him from the chairmanship; or at least I could try. I might even get away with it, or I might not. But even if I did, there would be a fight that would split the department, maybe even the college, wide open. And, God damn it—” Finch was suddenly embarrassed; he mumbled, “God damn it, I’ve got to think of the college.” He looked directly at Stoner. “Do you see what I’m trying to say?”

A warmth of feeling, of love and fond respect for his old friend, came over Stoner. He said, “Of course I do, Gordon. Did you think I wouldn’t understand?”

“All right,” Finch said. “And there’s one more thing. Somehow Lomax has got his finger in the president’s nose, and he leads him around like a cut bull. So it may be even rougher than you think. Look, all you’d have to do is say you’d reconsidered. You could even blame it on me—say I made you do it.”

“It isn’t a matter of my saving face, Gordon.”

“I know that,” Finch said. “I said it wrong. Look at it this way. What does it matter about Walker? Sure, I know; it’s the principle of the thing; but there’s another principle you ought to think of.”

“It’s not the principle,” Stoner said. “It’s Walker. It would be a disaster to let him loose in a classroom.”

“Hell,” Finch said wearily. “If he doesn’t make it here, he can go somewhere else and get his degree; and despite everything he might even make it here. You could lose this, you know, no matter what you do. We can’t keep the Walkers out.”

“Maybe not,” Stoner said. “But we can try.”

Finch was silent for several moments. He sighed. “All right. There’s no use keeping Lomax waiting any longer. We might as well get it over with.” He got up from his desk and started for the door that led to the small anteroom. But as he passed Stoner, Stoner put his hand on his arm, delaying him for a moment.

“Gordon, do you remember something Dave Masters said once?”

Finch raised his brows in puzzlement. “Why do you bring Dave Masters up?”

Stoner looked across the room, out of the window, trying to remember. “The three of us were together, and he said—something about the University being an asylum, a refuge from the world, for the dispossessed, the crippled. But he didn’t mean Walker. Dave would have thought of Walker as—as the world. And we can’t let him in. For if we do, we become like the world, just as unreal, just as … The only hope we have is to keep him out.”

Finch looked at him for several moments. Then he grinned. “You son-of-a-bitch,” he said cheerfully. “We’d better see Lomax now.” He opened the door, beckoned, and Lomax came into the room.

He came into the room so stiffly and formally that the slight hitch in his right leg was barely noticeable; his thin handsome face was set and cold, and he held his head high, so that his rather long and wavy hair nearly touched the hump that disfigured his back beneath his left shoulder. He did not look at either of the two men in the room with him; he took a chair opposite Finch’s desk and sat as erect as he could, staring at the space between Finch and Stoner. He turned his head slightly toward Finch.

“I asked for the three of us to meet for a simple purpose. I wish to know whether Professor Stoner has reconsidered his ill-advised vote yesterday.”

“Mr. Stoner and I have been discussing the matter,” Finch said. “I’m afraid that we’ve been unable to resolve it.”

Lomax turned to Stoner and stared at him; his light blue eyes were dull, as if a translucent film had dropped over them. “Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring some rather serious charges out in the open.”

“Charges?” Finch’s voice was surprised, a little angry. “You never mentioned anything about—”

“I’m sorry,” Lomax said. “But this is necessary.” He said to Stoner, “The first time you spoke to Charles Walker was when he asked you for admittance to your graduate seminar. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Stoner said.

“You were reluctant to admit him, were you not?”

“Yes,” Stoner said. “The class already had twelve students.”

Lomax glanced at some notes he held in his right hand. “And when the student told you he had to get in, you reluctantly admitted him, at the same time saying that his admission would virtually ruin the seminar. Is that right?”

“Not exactly,” Stoner said. “As I remember, I said one more in the class would—”

Lomax waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just trying to establish a context. Now, during this first conversation, did you not question his competence to do the work in the seminar?”

Gordon Finch said tiredly, “Holly, where’s all this getting us? What good do you—”

“Please,” Lomax said. “I have said that I have charges to bring. You must allow me to develop them. Now. Did you not question his competence?”

Stoner said calmly, “I asked him a few questions, yes, to see whether he was capable of doing the work.”

“And did you satisfy yourself that he was?”

“I was unsure, I believe,” Stoner said. “It’s difficult to remember.”

Lomax turned to Finch. “We have established, then, first that Professor Stoner was reluctant to admit Walker to his seminar; second, that his reluctance was so intense that he threatened Walker with the fact that his admission would ruin the seminar; third, that he was at least doubtful that Walker was competent to do the work; and fourth, that despite this doubt and these strong feelings of resentment, he allowed him in the class anyway.”

Finch shook his head hopelessly. “Holly, this is all pointless.”

“Wait,” Lomax said. He glanced hastily at his notes and then looked up shrewdly at Finch. “I have a number of other points to make. I could develop them by ‘cross examination’ “—he gave the words an ironic inflection—”but I am no attorney. But I assure you I am prepared to specify these charges, if it becomes necessary.” He paused, as if gathering his strength. “I am prepared to demonstrate, first, that Professor Stoner allowed Mr. Walker into his seminar while holding incipiently prejudiced feelings against him; I am prepared to demonstrate that this prejudicial feeling was intensified by the fact that certain conflicts of temperament and feeling came out during the course of this seminar, that the conflict was aided and intensified by Mr. Stoner himself, who allowed, and indeed at times encouraged, other members of the class to ridicule and laugh at Mr. Walker. I am prepared to demonstrate that on more than one occasion this prejudice was manifested by statements by Professor Stoner, to students and others; that he accused Mr. Walker of ‘attacking’ a member of the class, when Mr. Walker was merely expressing a contrary opinion, that he admitted anger about this so-called ‘attack’ and that he moreover indulged in loose talk about Mr. Walker’s ‘behaving foolishly.’ I am prepared to demonstrate, too, that without provocation Professor Stoner, out of this prejudice, accused Mr. Walker of laziness, of ignorance, and of dishonesty. And, finally, that of all the thirteen members of the class, Mr. Walker was the only one—the only one—that Professor Stoner singled out for suspicion, asking him alone to hand in the text of his seminar report. Now I call upon Professor Stoner to deny these charges, either singly or categorically.”

Stoner shook his head, almost in admiration. “My God,” he said. “How you make it sound! Sure, everything you say is a fact, but none of it is true. Not the way you say it.”

Lomax nodded, as if he had expected the answer. “I am prepared to demonstrate the truth of everything I have said. It would be a simple matter, if necessary, to call the members of that seminar, individually, and question them.”

“No!” Stoner said sharply. “That is in some ways the most outrageous thing you’ve said all afternoon. I will not have the students dragged into this mess.”

“You may have no choice, Stoner,” Lomax said softly. “You may have no choice at all.”

Gordon Finch looked at Lomax and said quietly, “What are you getting at?”

Lomax ignored him. He said to Stoner, “Mr. Walker has told me that, although he is against doing so in principle, he is now willing to deliver over to you the seminar paper that you cast so many ugly doubts about; he is willing to abide by any decision that you and any other two qualified members of the department may make. If it receives a passing grade from a majority of the three, he will receive a passing grade in the seminar, and he will be allowed to remain in graduate school.”

Stoner shook his head; he was ashamed to look at Lomax. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Very well. I dislike doing this, but—if you do not change your vote of yesterday I shall be compelled to bring formal charges against you.”

Gordon Finch’s voice rose. “You’ll be compelled to do what ?”

Lomax said coolly, “The constitution of the University of Missouri allows any faculty member with tenure to bring charges against any other faculty member with tenure, if there is compelling reason to believe that the charged faculty member is incompetent, unethical, or not performing his duties in accord with the ethical standards laid out in Article Six, Section Three of the Constitution. These charges, and the evidence to support them, will be heard by the entire faculty, and at the end of the trial the faculty will either uphold the charges by a two-thirds vote or dismiss them with a lesser vote.”

Gordon Finch sat back in his chair, his mouth open; he shook his head unbelievingly. He said, “Now, look. This thing is getting out of hand. You can’t be serious, Holly.”

“I assure you that I am,” Lomax said. “This is a serious matter. It’s a matter of principle; and—and my integrity has been questioned. It is my right to bring charges if I see fit.”

Finch said, “You could never make them stick.”

“It is my right, nevertheless, to bring charges.”

For a moment Finch gazed at Lomax. Then he said quietly, almost affably, “There will be no charges. I don’t know how this thing is going to resolve itself, and I don’t particularly care. But there will be no charges. We’re all going to walk out of here in a few minutes, and we’re going to try to forget most of what has been said this afternoon. Or at least we’re going to pretend to. I’m not going to have the department or the college dragged into a mess. There will be no charges. Because,” he added pleasantly, “if there are, I promise you that I will do my damnedest to see that you are ruined. I will stop at nothing. I will use every ounce of influence I have; I will lie if necessary; I will frame you if I have to. I am now going to report to Dean Rutherford that the vote on Mr. Walker stands. If you still want to carry through on this, you can take it up with him, with the president, or with God. But this office is through with the matter. I want to hear no more about it.”

During Finch’s speech, Lomax’s expression had gone thoughtful and cool. When Finch finished, Lomax nodded almost casually and got up from his chair. He looked once at Stoner, and then he limped across the room and went out. For several moments Finch and Stoner sat in silence. Finally Finch said, “I wonder what it is between him and Walker.”

Stoner shook his head. “It isn’t what you’re thinking,” he said. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t believe I want to know.”

Ten days later Hollis Lomax’s appointment as chairman of the Department of English was announced; and two weeks after that the schedule of classes for the following year was distributed among the members of the department. Without surprise Stoner discovered that for each of the two semesters that made up the academic year he had been assigned three classes of freshman composition and one sophomore survey course; his upper-class Readings in Medieval Literature and his graduate seminar had been dropped from the program. It was, Stoner realized, the kind of schedule that a beginning instructor might expect. It was worse in some ways; for the schedule was so arranged that he taught at odd, widely separated hours, six days a week. He made no protest about his schedule and resolved to teach the following year as if nothing were amiss.

But for the first time since he had started teaching it began to seem to him that it was possible that he might leave the University, that he might teach elsewhere. He spoke to Edith of the possibility, and she looked at him as if he had struck her.

“I couldn’t,” she said. “Oh, I couldn’t.” And then, aware that she had betrayed herself by showing her fear, she became angry. “What are you thinking of?” She asked. “Our home—our lovely home. And our friends. And Grace’s school. It isn’t good for a child to be shifted around from school to school.”

“It may be necessary,” he said. He had not told her about the incident of Charles Walker and of Lomax’s involvement; but it became quickly evident that she knew all about it.

“Thoughtless,” she said. “Absolutely thoughtless.” But her anger was oddly distracted, almost perfunctory; her pale blue eyes wandered from their regard of him and rested casually upon odd objects in the living room, as if she were reassuring herself of their continued presence; her thin, lightly freckled fingers moved restlessly. “Oh, I know all about your trouble. I’ve never interfered with your work, but—really, you’re very stubborn. I mean, Grace and I are involved in this. And certainly we can’t be expected to pick up and move just because you’ve put yourself in an awkward position.”

“But it’s for you and Grace, partly, at least, that I’m thinking about it. It isn’t likely that I’ll—go much farther in the department if I stay here.”

“Oh,” Edith said distantly, summoning bitterness to her voice. “That isn’t important. We’ve been poor so far; there’s no reason we can’t go on like this. You should have thought of this before, of what it might lead to. A cripple.” Suddenly her voice changed, and she laughed indulgently, almost fondly. “Honestly, things are so important to you. What difference could it make?”

And she would not consider leaving Columbia. If it came to that, she said, she and Grace could always move in with Aunt Emma; she was getting very feeble and would welcome the company.

So he dropped the possibility almost as soon as he broached it. He was to teach that summer, and two of his classes were ones in which he had a particular interest; they had been scheduled before Lomax became chairman. He resolved to give them all of his attention, for he knew that it might be some time before he had a chance to teach them again.