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from his university who had just completed a dreary thesis on Ruskin. “Well,” said the student, a tall boy with a stoop, “I guess the good doctor is turning over in his grave today.”
    â€œWhat good doctor?” Brooke asked, uncomfortable with this person who had spent four years of his life reading The Stones of Venice .
    â€œDoctor Johnson.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brooke said.
    Riley, holding several sandwiches, joined them and the student had no chance to explain. “You really went after Abbot,” Riley said.
    â€œI didn’t intend to go after anyone.”
    â€œYou could have fooled me.”
    â€œIt was a panel,” Brooke said. “He spoke from his point of view and I spoke from mine. That’s what we were supposed to do.”
    â€œYou mean,” Riley said, “that you spoke from the right point of view and he spoke from the wrong point of view.”
    â€œI think so. What do you think?”
    â€œI don’t know the period as well as I should,” Riley said, “but I thought his ideas seemed original. They were interesting enough.”
    â€œInteresting,” Brooke said, “in the way flat-Earth theories are interesting.”
    â€œI envy you,” Riley said. “You’re always so sure of yourself.”
    The student looked at his watch. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I have to be going.”
    â€œI’m not always sure of myself,” Brooke said. “But this time I am.”
    â€œI wasn’t just thinking of the panel.” Riley reminded Brooke of the tenure committee meeting the previous week. He wanted to know how Brooke could deny work to a woman with a sick husband and three children. He wanted to know how Brooke justified that to himself.
    â€œWe were asked to consider her professional qualifications,” Brooke said. “She’s a terrible teacher, as you very well know, and she hasn’t published anything in over four years. Not even a book review.”
    â€œIt was that simple, was it?”
    â€œIt wasn’t simple at all,” Brooke said. “If there was anything I could do for her short of giving her tenure I would do it. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going out for some fresh air.”
    A cold, salty breeze was blowing in off the water. The streets were empty. Brooke walked around the hotel several times, nodding to the doorman as he passed the entrance. The street lights were on, and some mineral embedded in the concrete made it glitter in a false and irritating way.
    He decided that he was right and Riley wrong. But why did he feel so awful? It was ridiculous. He would have a bite to eat and drive home that very night. Riley could find another ride.
    Â 
    As he left the hotel restaurant Brooke saw the blonde woman—Ruth—standing in the lobby. He was about to turn away but just then she looked in his direction and smiled and waved. She was plainly glad to see him and Brooke decided to say hello. Not to do so, he thought, would be rude. They sat side by side in chairs that had, for some reason, been bolted to the floor. In the chairs across from them two scoutmasters were arm-wrestling. Ruth’s perfume smelled like lavender; it came over Brooke in waves. He wanted to close his eyes and breathe it in.
    â€œI called the library,” she said, “but they didn’t have either one of your books.”
    â€œThat doesn’t surprise me,” Brooke said. He explained that they were too specialized to be of interest to the general public.
    â€œI’d still like to read them,” Ruth said. “There are people in the literary society who write things, haikus and so on, but I’ve never met anyone before who wrote a book, not to mention two books. Maybe,” she said, “I can order them through a bookstore.”
    â€œThat’s possible,” Brooke said, but he hoped she would not do