He glanced at the clock. It was late in the afternoon, the Saturday before Labor Day, and he had to get ready to attend a faculty reception on campus that evening. Giancarlo was not looking forward to the affair. In fact, he would have preferred to skip it altogether, for at the moment he was not feeling particularly enthusiastic about the start of the fall semester. Giancarlo was not one of those people who mourned the end of summer. Just the same, he could not help feeling that this one had passed much too quickly. The tired, burned-out feeling about which he had complained back in the spring was still very much with him, though he tried to ignore it. He wondered if perhaps it had been a mistake to not take a week or two off back at the beginning of the summer, to just go someplace to get away from it all. It might have made sense to do so, but looking back, the thought of planning such a getaway had not seemed worth the energy at the time. Besides, he had committed himself to teaching Carter, and every lesson had counted. In any case, it was much too late to worry about it all now, so he trudged off to his bedroom to change his clothes.

The air was full of lively talk and laughter when Giancarlo arrived at the reception. As he made his way toward the bar for a cocktail, he exchanged greetings with his fellow faculty members, nodding hello and agreeing with them, at least outwardly, that yes, it really was good to be back.When at last he had a drink in hand, Giancarlo turned from the bar and scanned the crowded room for an out-of-the-way spot in which he might station himself. The far corner of the room seemed the most promising prospect, so he began to make his way in that direction. He had not gone far when he saw Henry Sheffield coming his way through the crowd.

“Ah, we meet again, Giancarlo,” said the dean, shaking his hand when the two met in the middle of the room. “Good to see you. How was the rest of your summer?”

“A little too short, I think,” replied Giancarlo.

“They always are,” sighed Sheffield with a nod. Then he brightened, and looked about the room. “But you know, I love the coming of fall. Strange, isn’t it? Autumn comes when the year is nearing its end, when everything outside is getting ready to die, but for us in academia it’s a time of beginnings.”

“You’re waxing poetic, Henry,” Giancarlo noted, before taking a sip of his drink.

“Ha!” Sheffield laughed. “I suppose I am. It just comes over me sometimes, and I can’t resist.” He paused, and gave Giancarlo a sideways glance. “So tell me, Giancarlo,” he asked, “have you given any thought to that concert in the spring I told you about?”