This was a story which had some currency around Hampden, and the Dean had left some of it out. The psychologist had not only left her own door open but also had tried to get Julian to do the same.

'To tell the truth,' said the Dean, 'I'd expected something a little more classical. Oil lamps. Discus throwing. Nude youths wrestling on the floor.'

'What do you want?' said Camilla, not very politely.

He paused, caught short, and gave her an oily smile. 'We need to have a little talk,' he said. 'My office has just learned that Julian has been called away from school very suddenly. He has taken an indefinite leave of absence and does not know when he might return. Needless to say' – a phrase he delivered with sarcastic delicacy – 'this puts you all in a rather interesting position in terms of academics, especially as it is only three weeks until the end of term. I understand that he was not in the habit of giving a written examination?'

We stared at him.

'Did you write papers? Sing songs? How was he accustomed to determining your final grade?'

'An oral examination for the tutorials,' Camilla said, 'as well as a term paper for the Civilization class.' She was the only one of us who was collected enough to speak. 'For the composition classes, an extended translation, English to Greek, from a passage of his choosing.'

The Dean pretended to ponder this. Then he took a breath and said: 'The problem you face, as I'm sure you're aware, is that we currently have no other teacher able to take over your class.

Mr Delgado has a reading knowledge of Greek, and though he says he'd be happy to look at your written work he is teaching a full load this term. Julian himself was most unhelpful on this point. I asked him to suggest a possible replacement and he said there wasn't any that he knew of.'

He took a piece of paper from his pocket. 'Now here are the three possible alternatives which occur to me. The first is for you to take incompletes and finish the course work in the fall. The thing is, however, I'm far from certain that Literature and Languages will be hiring another Classics teacher. There is so little interest in the subject, and the general consensus seems to be that it should be phased out, especially now that we're attempting to get the new Semiotics department off the ground.'

He took a deep breath. 'The second alternative is for you to take incompletes and finish the work in summer school. The third possibility is that we bring in – mind you, on a temporary basis a substitute teacher. Understand this. At this point in time it is extremely doubtful that we will continue to offer the degree in Classics at Hampden. For those of you who choose to remain with us, I feel sure that the English department can absorb you with minimal loss of credit hours, though I think each of you in order to fulfill the department requirements are looking at two semesters of work above and beyond what you might've anticipated for graduation. At any rate.' He looked at his list. 'I am sure you have heard of Hackett, the preparatory school for boys,' he said. 'Hack ett has extensive offerings in the field of Classics. I contacted the headmaster this morning and he said he would be happy to send a master over twice a week to supervise you. Though this might seem the best option from your perspective, it would by no means be ideal, relying, as it does, upon the auspices of the '

It was at this moment that Charles chose to come crashing through the door.

He lurched in, looked around. Though he might not have been intoxicated technically, that very instant, he had been so recently enough for this to be an academic point. His shirttails hung out. His hair fell in long dirty strings over his eyes.

'What?' he said, after a moment. 'Where's Julian?'

'Don't you knock?' said the Dean.

Charles turned, unsteadily, and looked at him.

'What's this?' he said. 'Who the hell are you?'

'I,' said the Dean sweetly, 'am the Dean of Studies.'

'What have you done with Julian?'

'He has left you. And somewhat in the lurch if I dare say it.

He has been called very suddenly from the country and doesn't know – or hasn't thought – about his return. He gave me to understand that it was something with the State Department, the Isrami government and all that. I think we are fortunate not to have had more problems of this nature, with the princess having gone to school here. One thinks at the time only of the prestige of such a pupil, alas, and not for an instant of the possible repercussions. Though I can't for the life of me imagine what the Isramis would want with Julian. Hampden's own Salman Rushdie.' He chuckled appreciatively, then consulted his sheet again. 'At any rate. I have arranged for the master from Hackett to meet with you tomorrow, here, at three p. m. I hope there is no conflict of schedule for anyone. If that happens to be the case, however, it would be well for you to re-evaluate your priorities, as this is the only time that he will be available to answer your I knew that Camilla hadn't seen Charles in well over a week, and I knew she couldn't have been prepared to see him looking so bad, but she was gazing at him with an expression not so much of surprise as of panic, and horror. Even Henry looked taken aback.

'… and, of course, this will entail a certain spirit of compromise on your parts too, as '

'What?' said Charles, interrupting him. 'What did you say?

You said Julian's gone?'

'I must compliment you, young man, on your grasp of the English language.'

'What happened? He just picked up and left?'

'In essence, yes.

There was a brief pause. Then Charles said, in a loud, clear voice: 'Henry, why do I think for some reason that this is all your fault?'

There followed a long and not too pleasant silence. Then Charles spun and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The Dean cleared his throat.

'As I was saying,' he continued.

It is strange, but true, to relate, that at this point in time I was still capable of being upset by the fact that my career at Hampden had pretty much gone down the drain. When the Dean had said 'two extra semesters,' my blood ran cold. I knew, with the certainty I knew that night follows day, there was no way I could get my parents to make their measly, but quite necessary, contribution for an extra year. I'd lost time already, in three changes of major, in the transfer from California, and I'd lose even more if I transferred again – assuming that I could even get into another school, that I could get another scholarship, with my spotty records, with my spotty grades: why, I asked myself, oh, why, had I been so foolish, why hadn't I picked something and stuck with it, how was it that I could currently be at the end of my third year of college and have basically nothing to show for it?

What made me angrier was that none of the others seemed to care. To them, I knew, this didn't make the slightest bit of difference. What was it to them if they had to go an extra term?

What did it matter, if they failed to graduate, if they had to go back home? At least they had homes to go to. They had trust funds, allowances, dividend checks, doting grandmas, well connected uncles, loving families. College for them was only a way station, a sort of youthful diversion. But this was my main chance, the only one. And I had blown it.

I spent a frantic couple of hours pacing in my room – that is, I'd come to think of it as 'mine' but it wasn't really, I had to be out in three weeks, already it seemed to be assuming a heartless air of impersonality – and drafting a memo to the financial aid office. The only way I could finish my degree – in essence, the only way I could ever acquire the means to support myself in any passably tolerable fashion – was if Hampden agreed to shoulder the entire cost of my education during this additional year. I pointed out, somewhat aggressively, that it wasn't my fault Julian had decided to leave. I brought up every miserable commendation and award I'd won since the eighth grade. I argued that a year of classics could only bolster and enrich this now highly desirable course of study in English Literature.