His eyes roamed around the room, looking for evidence of any kind of culinary activity until they finally settled on a microwave and a hot plate that were perched somewhat precariously on top of a dresser. A small refrigerator sat on the floor nearby.

“I have an electric kettle,” Julia said brightly, as if she was announcing the fact that she had a diamond from Tiffany’s.

He noticed the water that was continuing to stream off her, then he began to notice the clothes that were under the water, and then he began to notice what was under her clothes, because it was cold…and he hastily and somewhat huskily suggested that she forego making tea in order to dry herself.

Once again her head tipped down, and she flushed before ducking into the bathroom and grabbing a towel. She emerged a few seconds later with a purple towel wrapped around her upper body over her wet clothes and a second towel in her hand. She moved as if she was going to crawl across the floor to clean up the trail of water she’d scattered from the door to the center of the room, but The Professor stood up and stopped her.

“Allow me,” he said. “You should change into some dry clothes before you catch pneumonia.”

“And die,” she added, more to herself than to him as she disappeared into her closet, trying not to trip over two large suitcases.

The Professor wondered briefly why she hadn’t unpacked yet but dismissed the answer as unimportant.

He frowned as he cleaned the water from the worn and scratched hardwood. When he’d finished, he looked at the walls and noticed that they had probably been white once, but were now a dingy cream color and were blistered and peeling. He inspected the ceiling and found several large water stains and what he thought might be the beginning of mold in one of the corners. He shuddered, wondering why on earth a nice girl like Miss Mitchell would live in such a terrible place. Although he had to admit that the apartment was very clean and quite tidy. Unusually so.

“How much is your rent?” he asked, wincing slightly as he accordioned his six foot two frame in order to perch once again on the vile thing that masqueraded as a folding chair.

“Eight hundred a month, utilities included,” she called to him just before she entered the bathroom.

Professor Emerson thought with some regret of the Armani trousers he had disposed of after the flight back from Pennsylvania. He couldn’t bear the notion of wearing something that had been soaked in urine, even if it had been cleaned, so he’d just thrown them out. But the money Paulina had spent on those trousers would have paid Miss Mitchel ’s rent for an entire month. And then some.

Looking around the small studio, it was both painfully and pathetically clear that she had tried to make it into a home, such as it was. A large print of Henry Holiday’s painting, Dante meets Beatrice at Ponte Santa Trinita, hung to the side of her bed. The Professor imagined her reclining on her pillow, her long, shiny hair cascading around her face, gazing over at Dante before she fel asleep. He dutiful y put that thought aside and reflected on how strange it was that they both owned that painting. He peered at it and noticed with surprise that Julia bore a remarkable resemblance to Beatrice — a resemblance that had previously gone unnoticed. The thought twisted in his mind like a corkscrew, but he refused to dwell on it.

He noticed other smaller pictures of various Italian scenes on the peeling walls of the apartment: a drawing of the Duomo in Florence, a sketch of St. Mark’s in Venice, a black and white photograph of the dome of St. Peter’s in Rome. He saw a row of potted herbs gracing the window sill along with a single cutting from a philodendron that she was apparently trying to nurse into a full grown plant. He observed that the curtains were pretty — a sheer lilac that matched the bedspread and its cushions.

And her bookshelf boasted many volumes in both English and Italian. The Professor scanned the titles quickly and was but mildly impressed with her amateurish collection. But in short, the studio was old, tiny, in poor repair, and kitchen-less, and Professor Emerson would not have permitted his dog to live in a place like this, had he had one.

Julia reappeared in what looked like an exercise uniform — a black hoodie and yoga pants. She’d knotted and twisted her lovely hair and fastened it near the top of her head with a clip of some sort. Even in such casual garb he noticed that she was very attractive — extremely attractive and dare he say it, sylphlike.

“I have English Breakfast or Lady Grey,” she spoke over her shoulder, descending to her hands and knees in order to snake the plug from the electric kettle back to the outlet that was underneath the dresser.

The Professor regarded her as she kneeled, just as she had in his office, and silently shook his head. She was without arrogance or selfish pride, which he knew was a good thing, but it pained him to see her constantly on her knees, although he couldn’t exactly say why.

“English Breakfast. Why do you live here?”

Julia stood up quickly in response to the sharpness of his tone. She kept her back to him as she located a large, brown teapot and two surprisingly beautiful china teacups with matching saucers.

“This is a quiet street in a nice neighborhood. I don’t have a car, and I needed to be able to walk to school.” She paused as she placed a small silver teaspoon on each of the saucers. “This was one of the nicer apartments I looked at in my price range.” She placed the elegant teacups on the card table without looking at him and returned to the dresser.

“Why didn’t you move into the graduate student residence on Charles Street?”

Julia dropped something. The Professor couldn’t see what it was.

“I was expecting to go to a different university, but it didn’t work out.

By the time I decided to come here, the residence was full.”

“And where were you going to go?”

She began to worry her lower lip between her teeth, back and forth.

“Miss Mitchell?”

“Harvard.”

Professor Emerson just about fell off his very uncomfortable chair.

“Harvard? What the hell are you doing here?”

Julia smothered a secret smile as if she knew the reason behind his anger. “Toronto is the Harvard of the north.”

“Don’t be coy, Miss Mitchell. I asked you a question.”

“Yes, Professor. And I know that you always expect an answer to your questions.” She arched an eyebrow, and he looked away. “My father couldn’t afford the contribution he was expected to make to my education, so the fellowship they offered me was not enough, and the living expenses were much more in Cambridge than in Toronto. I already have thousands of dollars of student loans from Saint Joseph’s University, so I decided not to add to them. That’s why I’m here.”

She returned to her hands and knees to unplug the now boiling kettle as The Professor shook his head in shock.

“That wasn’t in the file Mrs. Jenkins gave me,” he protested. “You should have said something.”

Julia ignored him and began to measure loose tea into the teapot.

He leaned forward in his chair, gesturing wildly. “This is a terrible place to live — there isn’t even a proper kitchen. What do you eat here?”

She placed the teapot and a small, silver tea strainer on the card table and sat down on the other folding chair. She began to wring her hands.

“I eat lots of vegetables. I can make soup and couscous on the hot plate. Couscous is very nutritious.” Her voice shook a little, but she tried to sound cheerful.

“You can’t live on that kind of rubbish — a dog is better fed!”

Julia ducked her head and blushed deeply, suddenly blinking back tears.

The Professor looked at her for a moment, then finally saw her. As he regarded the tortured expression that marred her lovely features, he slowly began to realize that he, Professor Gabriel O. Emerson, was a self-absorbed bastard. He had shamed her for being poor. But there was no shame in being poor. He had been poor once too, very poor. She was a smart, attractive woman who was also a student. There was no shame in that. But he’d come into her little home that she had tried to make comfortable because she had no other place to go, and he had said it wasn’t fit for a dog. He had made her feel worthless and stupid when she was neither. What would Grace say if she could hear him now?

Professor Emerson was an ass. But at least now he knew it.

“Forgive me,” he began haltingly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

He closed his eyes and began to rub them.

“You’ve just lost your mother.” Julia’s gentle voice was startlingly forgiving.

A switch inside him flipped. “I shouldn’t be here.” He stood up quickly.

“I need to go.”

Julia followed him to the front door. She picked up his umbrella and handed him his trench coat. Then she stood with downcast eyes and flaming cheeks, waiting for him to leave. She felt regret for having shown him her home, since it was clearly so far beneath him. Whereas a few hours earlier she had taken pride in her small but clean hobbit hole, now she was mortified. Not to mention the fact that being humiliated again in front of him made matters so much worse.

He nodded at her, or at something, muttered under his breath, and exited her apartment.

Julia leaned her back against the closed door and finally allowed herself to weep.

Knock. Knock.

She knew who it was. She simply didn’t want to answer the door.

Please gods of over-priced, not-fit-for-a-dog hobbit holes, just let him leave me in peace.  Julia’s silent and spontaneous prayer went unanswered.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She quickly wiped her face and opened the door, but only a crack.

He blinked at her like a Christmas tree, somehow having a difficult time registering the fact that she had clearly been crying in between his departure and his return.

She cleared her throat and looked down at his Italian made wing-tipped shoes, which he shuffled slightly.

“When was the last time you had a steak?”

Julia laughed and shook her head. She couldn’t remember.

“Well, you’re going to have one tonight. I’m starving, and you’re joining me for dinner.”

She allowed herself the luxury of a small but wicked smile. “Are you sure, Professor? I thought this —”  she mimicked his gesture from earlier

“ — was not going to work.”

He reddened slightly. “Never mind about that now. Except…” His eyes wandered to her clothes, resting perhaps a little too long on the curves of her lovely breasts.

Julia lowered her gaze. “I could change.”

“That would be best. See that you dress appropriately.”

She looked up at him with a very hurt expression. “I may be poor, but I have a few nice things. None of them are immodest, if you’re worried I might embarrass you by looking cheap.”

The Professor reddened again as he kicked himself, inwardly. “I just meant…appropriate for a restaurant where I will have to wear a jacket and tie.” He hazarded a small smile as a means of apology.

Julia’s eyes traveled over his button down and sweater, perhaps linger-ing a little too long on the planes of his lovely pectorals. “I’ll agree on one condition.”