That Day the Rabbi Left Town by Harry Kemelman

His colleagues attributed his unfriendliness to the fact that he was a bit older—they had got their degrees only the year before—or perhaps because he was British. Some thought he was a natural grouch, and others that he spent so much time in the library because he was engaged in research. His real reason, however, for not engaging in their chitchat was that he was afraid he might say something that would indicate that he had never gone to college. It was hard for him since he was by nature sociable and talkative. So he did as he had done in London: he went to lectures and concerts and evening services at local churches.
    After a few years he was promoted from instructor to assistant professor. Now, as Professor Kent, he taught several sections of the Survey of English Literature course as well as a section of the Freshman English course.
    Over the years, the status of the school had improved, steadily although almost imperceptibly. The doctorate became required of most appointees to the faculty, and after a while, in several departments, publication in learned journals as proof of scholarship was also required. The status of the school, which formerly had been on a par with one of the local junior colleges, was now thought to be equal to the state four-year college.
    Then the president, Allen Treadwell Chisholm, retired, and Donald Macomber, a historian of some repute, was installed in his place. Although still regarded as a fallback school for the prestigious Ivy League colleges of the area, it was also attracting students for whom it was the first choice, in part because tuition fees were considerably lower than those of the Ivy League colleges, and in part because admission standards were more liberal.
    But as the status of the college increased, Kent’s status with his colleagues diminished correspondingly. When he had first joined the faculty, academically he had been thought to be more or less on a par with the other members of the faculty, who had been high school teachers or instructors in local colleges. There had been no Ph.D.s in the English Department; the president had been a high school principal; and Dean Millicent Hanbury had been head of the Physical Education Department.
    But now, almost all professors had Ph.D.s, and most of them had published in learned journals. There were even some who were held in esteem by their colleagues in other colleges. And Professor Kent? He stayed on because there was no reason to dismiss him.
    And then he met Matilda Clark. She was the great-granddaughter of Ezra Clark, who had built the row of brown-stone fronts on the street that was named for him and who was not only one of the founders of Windermere, but the donor of one of the houses on Clark Street, the first building of the college. She was a spinster of fifty, five or six years older than he, and lived in the big corner house, where she had been born.
    On a cold, blustery winter’s day, as he was walking along Clark Street, leaning forward against the buffeting of the wind, he had caught sight of her clinging to the iron railing on the steps of her house. He hurried toward her and asked if he could help her. She nodded gratefully and he helped her up the steps. She handed him her key and he opened the door. Then, inside, in gratitude she offered him tea.
    â€œI get sort of short-winded sometimes,” she explained as she led him to a small, nondescript room off the entrance hall.
    â€œEveryone does sometimes,” he assured her.
    â€œOh, is that so? This was my study when I was going to school,” she said, “and I like to eat in here because it’s near the kitchen. If you’ll wait here, I’ll bring the tea things. I won’t be long.”
    He looked about him when she left. There were a couple of chairs and a table, the one she used to study at, presumably. There was a small bookcase against the wall, and he walked over to examine the books it contained. They were the