Wake of the Perdido Star by Gene Hackman Page B

did I . . .

    The click of heels on the marble floor signaled to Paul Le Maire that his father’s wrath would be upon him. He had spent an hour alone in the sitting room waiting, watching the shadows on the polished floor grow long. The house was still. Drapes brushed
against the sparkling windows. Particles of dust swirled, catching the last rays of sun. Paul knew his father had already heard of his dismissal from college. He relived the scene with anguish. Dean Nathaniel J. Clark had sent for him abruptly.
    â€œYoung man, The College of William and Mary has over one hundred years of tradition behind it. The architect of our Constitution was schooled here. By all that is holy . . . ”
    The dean alternately pushed his glasses closer to his eyes and dropped his head to see over them, all the while driving his hands deep into his pockets, exploring the dark interior of his pants. “What in God’s name has gotten into you, man?”
    Au contraire, what has gotten into you , monsieur? thought Paul.
    Dean Clark glowed with a fury frightening to behold. The students referred to him as the Scarecrow. Long, gangly, disjointed limbs. A misshapen, unhappy face, dominated by a huge, bloodblistered nose. “You are already on probation for your last little episode,” he proclaimed.
    Paul could contain himself no longer. He began to laugh.
    â€œHow dare you laugh at me!” Standing righteously, the dean took a deep breath and expelled it loudly through his nose. “You, who stood in this very office and begged for another chance.”
    Paul knew then it was all over.
    â€œWhat do you have to say for yourself, young man?” The dean’s feet pounded the oaken floor. “You’ve acted the clown in class, ridiculed your professors, and generally disgraced not only this school but your father, who, as you well know, has given a generous endowment to this establishment. But don’t think for one minute that his generosity will in any way dissuade me from expelling you if I see fit.” He paused here, cocking his head, waiting for an answer.
    â€œSir, first of all, may I correct you on one thing? I did not try to ridicule Professor Dawes. He did that on his own,” replied Paul.
    â€œHow dare you use that attitude with me!” the dean shouted. “I’ve attempted to give you a chance to speak in your defense and you have the audacity to correct me?”

    â€œNo, sir, I didn’t mean it as a correction of you so much as a clarification of the facts as they may have been presented to you.”
    The dean slammed his bony fist down on his desk. “I’m going to notify your father immediately! You have the unmitigated gall to stand there and tell me Professor Dawes lied to me about what happened?”
    â€œNo, sir. I doubt he would knowingly lie. It’s just that he may not understand the reality of what was said, and was embarrassed at being dead wrong. . . . ” Paul paused and with great effort contorted his face into a mask of innocence. “You see, sir, although the quotation Professor Dawes used was substantially correct, he not only used it in the wrong context, but misidentified the author. He mistakenly said it was Isaac Newton who first spoke the words, ‘If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.’ Of course, you and I both know the phrase was first quoted perhaps as early as 1126 by Bernard of Chartres, referring to the ancients. Indeed, some would say it was Lucan, barely after the time of Christ. It was not, as Professor Dawes ineptly put it, that the architects of our Constitution gained strength from each other. That may or may not have been the truth, but had absolutely nothing to do with the quotation. So, sir, you can readily see my predicament: I was caught between trying to save the professor’s reputation or engaging in a meaningful dialectic to stimulate both myself and the class.”
    Dean