spires of the college chapel. There was a view of nothing but a steeply rising hill with a fringe of dark woods at the top from its windows. He could study here, undisturbed by college cheers and songs, and halloos of passing friends, with no friend to call and halloo to him. He had got to study, too. Besides, there was something about Mrs. Sparks, the landlady, that gave him a comfortable feeling—the first comfortable feeling he had had since he had reached this confusing mass called college, into which he felt sure he could never mix. Mrs. Sparks wore a big, full, white apron tied around her waist, and her steel-bowed spectacles were rusty.
Felix told her he would take the room and move in the next day. He hadn't much to move, he said—some books, two tables, a chair. They were now at the freight office. And a box of tools. Did she object to the tools? Carpenter's tools. One of the tables was a carpenter's bench. He didn't know that he'd have much time at college to work at it, but he liked making things out of wood. Little things. Inlaid boxes, book-ends, frames, dolls' chairs and bureaus. He wouldn't make much noise. And he always brushed up after himself.
Mrs. Sparks said she wouldn't mind brushing up a little sawdust along with his cigarette ashes, she guessed. But Felix said there wouldn't be any cigarette ashes. He didn't smoke.
