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that elitist if he accepted me,” I said.
    He didn’t catch my sarcasm. “I am willing to speculate that he isn’t aware you are on assistance,” he said seriously.
    “Well, if he doesn’t know,” I said, “I’m not going to tell him.”

    Julian’s classes met in his office. They were very small classes, and besides, no classroom could have approached it in terms of comfort, or privacy. He had a theory that pupils learned better in a pleasant, non-scholastic atmosphere; and that luxurious hothouse of a room, flowers everywhere in the dead of winter, was some sort of Platonic microcosm of what he thought a schoolroom should be. (“Work?” he said to me once, astonished, when I referred to our classroom activities as such. “Do you really think that what we do is work?”
    “What else should I call it?”
    “ I should call it the most glorious kind of play.”)
    As I was on my way there for my first class, I saw Francis Abernathy stalking across the meadow like a black bird, his coat flapping dark and crowlike in the wind. He was preoccupied, smoking a cigarette, but the thought that he might see me filled me with an inexplicable anxiety. I ducked into a doorway and waited until he had passed.
    When I turned on the landing of the Lyceum stairs, I was shocked to see him sitting in the windowsill. I glanced at him quickly, and then quickly away, and was about to walk into the hall when he said, “Wait.” His voice was cool and Bostonian, almost British.
    I turned around.
    “Are you the new neanias? ” he said mockingly.
    The new young man. I said that I was.
    “ Cubitum eamus? ”
    “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    He transferred the cigarette to his left hand and offered the right one to me. It was bony and soft-skinned as a teenage girl’s.
    He did not bother to introduce himself. After a brief, awkward silence, I told him my name.
    He took a last drag of the cigarette and tossed it out the open window. “I know who you are,” he said.
    Henry and Bunny were already in the office; Henry was reading a book and Bunny, leaning across the table, was talking to him loudly and earnestly.
    “… tasteless, that’s what it is, old man. Disappointed in you. I gave you credit for a little more savoir faire than that, if you don’t mind my saying so.…”
    “Good morning,” said Francis, coming in behind me and closing the door.
    Henry glanced up and nodded, then went back to his book.
    “Hi,” said Bunny, and then “Oh, hello there” to me. “Guess what,” he continued to Francis. “Henry bought himself a Montblanc pen.”
    “Really?” said Francis.
    Bunny nodded at the cup of sleek black pens that sat on Julian’s desk. “I told him he better be careful or Julian will think he stole it.”
    “He was with me when I bought it,” said Henry without looking up from his book.
    “How much are those things worth, anyway?” said Bunny.
    No answer.
    “Come on. How much? Three hundred bucks a pop?” He leaned all of his considerable weight against the table. “I remember when you used to say how ugly they were. You used to say you’d never write with a thing in your life but a straight pen. Right?”
    Silence.
    “Let me see that again, will you?” Bunny said.
    Putting his book down, Henry reached in his breast pocket and pulled out the pen and put it on the table. “There,” he said.
    Bunny picked it up and turned it back and forth in his fingers. “It’s like the fat pencils I used to use in first grade,” he said. “Did Julian talk you into getting this?”
    “I wanted a fountain pen.”
    “That’s not why you got this one.”
    “I am sick of talking about this.”
    “ I think it’s tasteless.”
    “You,” said Henry sharply, “are not one to speak of taste.”
    There was a long silence, during which Bunny leaned back in his chair. “Now, what kind of pens do we all use here?” he saidconversationally. “François, you’re a nib-and-bottle man like myself, no?”
    “More or