George ventured that if the term “classic” was used, it had better be defined, and just what did Kovarsky mean about the classic novel being outside the main stream? Something had been released in the class too and the final hour was a lively one. It ended with a quite passionate discussion on “background,” what is involved when the term is used and how in Willa Cather’s case the background was intrinsic, a felt and later realized part of all her memories as a child and subconscious memories through her grandparents. The effect of this sort of distillation of family experience on her style, as contrasted with that of Dreiser especially, was discussed and gave Cavan a chance to speak eloquently of style as inseparable from point of view, from the person writing.

“It is the person writing. The limitations of style are personal limitations—look at Oscar Wilde or Pater, look at Thoreau. Willa Cather’s style has complete integrity, the power of intense distillation. You don’t get this sort of thing out of the air.”

As usual when the two hours were up, the entire group followed Cavan down the stairs and out onto the street still talking.

“Is it always like this?” Pen asked George, and he could tell from her look of animation that she had been touched, as he hoped she would.

“No, I told you this was a lucky day.”

“Gee whiz,” she said, “I guess I’ll have to spend the summer reading novels.” And suddenly she laughed. “It doesn’t feel like Harvard College, George. Where are we anyway?”

George and she stood out on Appian Way, looking at the knot of talkers who had stopped now at the corner before separating. They watched Cavan, with a sudden abrupt gesture of good-bye, break away and go off across the Common alone. He walked fast, his head down.

“Yet,” she said turning back to George, her face all serious again, “there’s something painful about that man. It hurts. Why, George?”

Supersensitive where Cavan was concerned, almost resenting Pen’s quick accurate intuition, George pulled her away in the other direction, badgering her as they walked to be more explicit. “I don’t know what you mean really. What hurts?” And then before she could answer, there was the matter of where to go to be settled. They stood on the sidewalk looking in at the little tables under umbrellas at the Window Shop, tempted by the warmth of the day, though no one was sitting outside.

“But that wonderful chocolate cake, Pen,” he reminded her as she seemed to hesitate. He felt ravenous, as if just looking at Pen used up an immense amount of energy. “Those little sandwiches.…”