Into the Fire
2 of 12
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 75,402 in total, 5,690 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
By the way, any mistakes are entirely my own, up and including erroneous interpretation of the semester system for university as well as the typical length of university tenure for an undergraduate, typos and grammatical errors. Thanks to my dear M. for being my real-time beta and plotbunny breeder… and all around awesome friend.
Chapter 2.
The rest of the week went by fairly uneventfully. He graded the quizzes; when he got to Bridget's, he found that even despite the time deficit, her answers were thoughtful, detailed and completely correct. At the bottom of the quiz page, she had drawn a smiley-face. It made him chuckle.
Patrick invited him out for supper on Friday night, which he accepted. They went to the same pub at which they'd had lunch; it seemed to be the place where faculty congregated on their off-hours.
"Survived your first week, I see," quipped Patrick, raising a glass of ale to his lips.
"Indeed. They're a decent, eager group of students though."
"That's good."
"It's the oddest coincidence, though," said Mark. "One of my students is the twenty-year-old daughter of my parents' friends."
"That is an odd coincidence," said Patrick. "And you didn't know she went here for law?"
"Nope," he said.
Their conversation moved on to other things. Mark admitted that he did not quite know what to do with so much free time; without a doubt he was busy, but compared to his life in London he was practically twiddling his thumbs.
"I've got a stack of quarterlies that I've fallen behind on reading," he said. "Now I can take the time to review them. Well. Once I can get someone back home to mail them to me."
Patrick grinned. "Wait until the semester really kicks into gear. You won't have time to scratch your ear." At Mark's laugh, he added, "I'm not joking."
…
Bridget continued to be late to class—not by more than a few minutes, but it was every single session—though the quality of her work and the way in which she was engaged in class made him inclined to overlook the consistent tardiness. He wished he'd known sooner that she was in the law course; not that he could have done anything about it, but he might have offered some kind of educational assistance, being that she was a friend of the family.
He noticed that compared to her classmates, she seemed to have a rather idealistic perspective on things, one that her classmates had picked up on and for which they teased her on occasion; it was nothing malicious, but it made him ponder what the difference was that set her apart. It could not solely be the fact that she was a woman; certainly there were other women in the class who did not espouse such viewpoints. She was also very witty and prone to joking, something else that set her apart; the others were, for the most part, very serious and eager to impress him.
The first exam was comprised of a few multiple choice questions and three short essays. She did well on it, even though she seemed to have a fundamental lack of understanding for modern legal processes. He wrote in the margin of her exam: 'I would revise re: procedure if I were you.'
Upon returning the corrected exam papers he noticed her furrowing her brow as her eyes scanned over the page. In discussing the test results, he said, "All in all I'm very pleased with your grades. Does anyone have any questions?"
Bridget looked up to him, and raised her hand. "Yes?"
"What does this mean, what you wrote about revising on procedure?"
He heard subdued chuckling from her classmates.
"We can discuss that after class," he said, not wanting to put her on the spot. "I meant questions about the subject matter. Anyone?"
"But which procedure?" she persisted.
He stared at her. How could she be so uncomprehending? "Legal procedure, Bridget," he said. "This is, ultimately, a legal course, and you, a law student. You will have a difficult time practising law in the real world if you don't have procedure mastered."
Her eyebrows shot up; a smile spread across her face. "I won't be."
"Won't be what?"
"Practising law in the real world," she said. "I don't want to bloody die of boredom." As soon as she said it her skin tinted pink.
Before she could say anything more, he asked, "Then why on earth are you in the law course?"
"I'm not," she said slowly with an impish smile. "I'm in the English BA course, with creative writing. I just thought this was an interesting subject."
He blinked a few times, then said as coolly as he could manage, "Well, I guess you can probably disregard that note." He turned, saw another student with his hand up. "Yes, Davis, what's your question?"
At the conclusion of class, he could see Bridget approaching his desk in his peripheral vision. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry," she said contritely.
"What for?" he asked, writing a few final notes.
"The 'die of boredom' comment. I didn't mean I thought the class was boring."
He stopped writing and looked up. "Just what I do for a living when I'm not here at Bangor."
"Well, yes, for me it would be," she said. "And you, you're not even really a lawyer."
"Excuse me?" he asked sharply. The last of the students at the door stopped and looked at him at this outburst.
She sighed, sitting on the edge of the desk, glancing to the side. "I just meant that to me, lawyers mean boredom and paperwork and stupid high society causes and shady backroom deals… but you, you defend the rights of the oppressed."
"Oh." He realised she was, in a sense, complimenting him, even though his own work was often filled with boring paperwork. It was her idealism shining through again. In all honesty, he was a bit flattered by her assessment. He looked down, then saw he was gazing directly at her knee, clad only in tights and above that the hem of her skirt. Apparently completely unaware of her motion, she shifted her leg and he saw a bit more than just thigh; in that flash he looked away again, all the while thinking it absurd to be wearing a skirt and tights in February in northern Wales.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "I should have just taken you up on speaking about it after class… and sometimes, I can't control my mouth. You know?"
He smiled. "I've noticed. It's quite all right, Bridget. I'd just work on reining that in before you get yourself into real trouble."
"I'll do my best," she said.
…
Mark had apparently found something of a détente with Bridget; the next two weeks were spent in relative calm.
Another Monday, another essay due. Bridget was not only on time for class, but was early. That should have been the indication something was amiss. She approached him wringing her hands, her eyes wide and a bit glossy with imminent tears.
"Professor Darcy," she said. "I need to talk to you."
He was immediately concerned. "What's the matter?"
She sighed heavily. "I have had the worst weekend. My computer has been crashing all over the place, all the labs were full, and… I need a little more time to finish my essay. I know how important punctuality is to you and really… everything was just crazy." She sniffed. "Can I have until Wednesday?"
He regarded her thoughtfully. He knew her penchant for being late to class, but the work itself had always been turned in on time, and was of good quality. "Bring it to my office tomorrow."
"Not Wednesday?" She looked on the verge of bursting into tears, and when she spoke again her tone was reminiscent of a scared little girl's. "I'm so, so sorry."
The last thing he wanted to do was make her cry; she seemed truly remorseful for something that was completely beyond her control. His gaze flitted up towards the door. They were as yet alone in the classroom. "Wednesday it is," he said. "You will bring the essay to class and you will show up early to do it. Show up even one minute beyond eight and you'll get a failing grade on that essay."
Her smile was hesitant but growing. "Thank you so much," she said quietly.
He nodded curtly. Two of the usual early birds arrived at that moment. "Go on, take a seat."
"Okay, great, thank you."
Class discussion that day was focused on non-interference versus the standards of basic human rights as set down by the United Nations. "Some people argue," Mark said, "that we have no right to swoop in to some of these tribal states and impose our system of laws on them. What do you think?"
"I think it's wrong," said Walters, a second-year student in the first row. "We don't have the right to do so to an autonomous state."
"But what about inhumane practises like female circumcision?" Bridget piped up. "Surely we can't sit by and allow this horrible 'tradition' to continue in the name of cultural differences. Women have the right to keep—well. Not be butchered in such a way."
"Walters has a point, though, Bridget," Mark said, striding back and forth at the front of the classroom. "We think it's pretty evident that such practises need to be abolished. But where do we draw the line? What makes that any different than colonial Britain lording over India?"
"Well, clearly the local authorities aren't doing a very good job of preventing it from continuing. In some places this torture is even state-sanctioned!"
"In which places would that be?" Mark asked, stopping his pacing and putting his hands on his hips.
She flushed, looked flustered, and stammered when she spoke. "Well, I don't know exactly off the top of my head—"
"If we could please refrain from hyperbole and unsubstantiated claims," Mark said coolly, "I would appreciate it."
"But that's the point," she said. "We know it happens, we know it's allowed to happen, and we have to intervene. The particulars at this point don't matter—"
"But they do." Mark held up his hand. "That is what makes practising this sort of law the most difficult. I happen to agree with you. That particular practise is barbaric. But we have to be very careful about stepping on the toes of autonomy, both political and cultural." He met Bridget's gaze; her cheeks were pink from the state she'd worked herself into, her expression studious yet a little surprised. "Everything must be done carefully, or else it could potentially spark a powder keg, figuratively speaking. In fact, it has gotten close to that more times than I can count."
"But what's the point of having a worldwide declaration of human rights if they don't apply to all humans because of silly manmade constructs like borders and governments?"
Stunned by her words, he did not have a ready answer for her; in fact, the entire class had gone stone silent. At this Bridget smirked, declaring her victory in the conversation.
"Indeed," said Mark after a moment or two of silence. "What is the point? I would like to have all of your opinions on this matter. An essay on the subject for next class, please."
"What, don't you know?" asked Bridget.
Cheeky, he thought. "Of course I know," he said, giving her a quick glare, "but I'll not be seeding your essays for you." Glancing to the clock, he announced that class was over.
He gathered up his things and proceeded out of the classroom, intent for his office to hold office hours. As he reached the door, he heard a familiar voice behind him. "You did that on purpose."
He turned around. Sure enough, it was Bridget. "Did what? Assign my class an essay?"
She opened her mouth to speak, then sighed instead. "Look, I'm sorry if my outburst was the cause of yet another essay."
"Well, it was," he said, "but I think it's a fair point to ponder."
"That and now I have to write two for Wednesday, on top of everything else," she said, then added quickly, "not that I'm not grateful for the extension."
"I have every faith in you," he said. "Is your computer behaving itself?"
She nodded.
"Glad to hear. See you bright and early on Wednesday."
The Tuesday-Thursday sessions of class were so typically uneventful that they barely registered; then again, that track did not have anyone as… unique as Bridget in it. Come Wednesday morning he arrived fifteen minutes early to the classroom, unpacked his things and waited for Bridget to arrive with her papers.
Ten to the hour: no Bridget.
Five to the hour: no Bridget.
With one minute to spare before the clock struck eight, she came sweeping in and slapped two printed pieces of paper down on his desk. She smiled triumphantly then took a seat. He picked them up as other students set theirs down too, skimmed over the essay on which she had gotten an extension. It appeared to be the high calibre of work he had come to expect from her.
When he read the second essay, he chuckled aloud. All she had written was:
There is no point.
He could not detract from her grade based solely on length, as he had provided no guidance for the minimum, and she had stated her opinion on the matter as he'd requested. He raised his eyes and met her challenging ones; he gathered up the other papers deposited by his students, squared the corners, stood, cleared his throat, and began his lecture.
Later that day, as he took a run around the campus, he encountered his friend Patrick. "Hey," said Patrick as Mark sidled up next to him.
"Hey," Mark replied.
They spent most of their run in companionable silence. They passed other individuals, mostly students, as they ran in the opposite direction. It amused Mark how young and vulnerable they seemed, and as Patrick and he came to a rest on a bench for a breather before heading back they way they had come, Mark commented as such.
Patrick chuckled.
"And sensitive too," Mark added. "Just this week one of my students—very bright, usually ready with a snappy retort at the drop of a hat—was on the verge of tears over the smallest of problems."
"What was this small problem?"
"Unspecified computer crashes, or at least that's what Bridget said."
At this Patrick burst out with a laugh.
"What?"
"It's got to be Jones, right?" sputtered Patrick through his laughter. "That girl's got the most unstable computer on campus. Very inconveniently crashes just before a paper's due, and even more coincidentally this happens on a weekend when there's a very appealing party to attend."
"You're familiar with Bridget?" Even as he asked it, he realised he shouldn't be surprised; she was, after all, a student in his department.
Patrick nodded. Mark felt like a fool for having allowed himself to fall for her story so easily. "Don't worry," he said. His thoughts must have been readily evident. "I presume she did not, at least, turn in the equivalent of 'Othello was a v. g. play indeed' scribbled on a cocktail napkin!" As his laughter subsided, Patrick added, "After a while you thicken your skin to their alleged innocence. You have to, or they'll take advantage of you."
"Duly noted," said Mark sheepishly.
They headed back again mostly in silence; Mark was contemplating what had happened while Patrick could be heard chuckling softly to himself.
"I'm glad you're so amused."
"I never thought you of all people would fall so easily for a pair of wide puppy-dog eyes," Patrick said. "Thought court would have toughened you up against that sort of thing."
"I get the point," Mark said snippily. "Believe me, I shall not be fooled again."
Patrick laughed once more. "Don't feel too bad. You are not the first one to be hoodwinked… big blue eyes sparkling as she begs for leniency…"
Mark thought he might have the whole of the weekend to contemplate what he might say to her about the deception. He was wrong. On Friday night he agreed to meet a few of his colleagues at a pub close to campus for a little socialisation. There at a table was a group of students laughing and enjoying pints of ale. Among those students was Bridget, clad in her typical outfit of miniskirt and vee-necked shirt. When she saw him her eyes went wide with surprise. He decided to go and talk to her.
"I hope your computer's good as new," he said.
She picked up her beer and drank, looking at him challengingly. "Hope you enjoyed my essays."
"Absolutely," he said, "though I was expecting more than four words on the subject, given your impassioned argument on the matter in class. Perhaps a few facts to shore it up."
"If it's my opinion," she said, "it's completely subjective, isn't it?"
"Touché," he said, drinking from his own ale. "By the way," he said, "I spoke to someone at the computer lab's help desk. They were surprised to hear that you had problems securing a computer over the weekend, said the sign-in logs were practically empty."
It was a bluff, but from the horrified expression on her face, it was clear she'd been caught in a lie. Her mouth hung slightly open, and futilely she said, "But…"
"No more extensions," he said quietly. "Enjoy your weekend."
With that he turned and joined his acquaintances again, sipping his beer, feeling slightly smug about his interaction, reviewing it in hyper-attentive detail; the way the blush rose to colour her skin, the alarm in her eyes after having looked so smug herself. She was charming and a challenge, and he rather liked it.
"What's are you looking so pleased about?" asked Rob, one of the fellow faculty members he'd accompanied that night.
"Oh," he said, resting back in his chair and grinning. "Just settling a score."
"Who was that girl you were talking to?"
With a residual grin, he explained, "One of my students."
"Oh," Rob said again, dragging out the word.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mark asked.
"I think he means that there seemed a little more than teacher-student there, from where we're sitting." This from Danny, another new friend, winking to the others.
"That's ridiculous," said Mark.
Conversation moved to other things—interdepartmental politics, for which he had no interest, and cricket, for which he had only marginally more—but Mark could not stop contemplating what his colleagues had said. It was indeed ridiculous. While it was true they'd known one another very briefly outside of Bangor, their relationship, as it were, was based in the classroom… unless they had seen something in her expression and behaviour that he had not. Nonsense, he thought, chiding himself. Not to mention she's thirteen years younger than I am.
He had to admit, however, that he enjoyed their interactions, even if the bulk of them were the equivalent of verbal sparring. It was refreshing that she did not seem interested in him in that way, that she was not bending over backwards to impress him like so many women had done since his divorce.
Towards the end of the evening, just before Mark was planning on leaving to walk back to his rented house, there was a bit of a commotion nearby. He turned his head to see what the matter was, just as most others in the pub had done; it was Bridget's table, and she was being most insistent.
"Alan, you're taking a taxi," she said, punching a number into her phone.
"I'll be fine to drive," slurred her friend, a young man among the mix at the table with long blond hair pulled into a neat ponytail, a tasteful hoop visible in his ear.
"Bollocks," she said, looking to her friend as she put the phone to her ear and proceeded to order a minicab to come straightaway. "Yes, that's right. The Globe. Ten minutes? Fantastic. Thank you." Bridget got to her feet. She swayed a little as she did but was clearly more sober than Alan was. "Come on. Up you go."
"But what about my car?" Alan asked.
"It'll be fine," she said, tugging on her friend's arm, helping him to stand. "You can come back for it tomorrow."
"Bridge," said Alan in a pathetic tone, "come home with me, please?"
Bridget gave him a piercing look. "I will not," she declared. "You live clear across town, and you're pissed." She slipped on her coat, helped Alan into his.
"Aw, but Bridge," he said, putting his arm about her shoulders, leaning on her a little as they walked. "You know how much I wanna shag you."
This alarmed Mark, made him fear for her safety a little, but this declaration only made Bridget chuckle. "Yes, Alan. You tell me every time you're pissed. And I tell you no." The pub crowd chuckled too in a low murmur. Clearly this scene had panned out before.
"Come on," he said in a whiny voice as they made for the door. As it opened, as they were blasted with wintry air, he added, "It's cold outside."
"A little night air will do you good."
As the door closed behind them, Mark stood, donning his own coat, tying his muffler around his neck then slipping on his gloves. He had every intention of keeping his eye on them until Alan was safely loaded into his cab. "Best be off," he said. "Thanks, mates."
"Cheers, Mark. See you."
When he got outside, Alan was leaned against the brick wall of the pub. Bridget stood a safe distance from him, keeping her eye on him. She looked to Mark just as he stepped out onto the walk. She rolled her eyes and turned away again.
"Oh, great. What are you going to rake me over the coals for now?" she asked with great resignation in her voice.
"Nothing," he said. "Just thought you might want some reinforcements."
The corner of her mouth twitched up into a smile. "I'm fine. I've done this too often to count."
"Perhaps Alan needs to learn his limitations."
"I can hear you, you know," mumbled Alan.
"I think he thinks one of these weeks I'll give in," she said. "Hah."
"All the same," Mark said, "I don't mind waiting with you." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "You must be cold."
"I'm fine," she reiterated. "You don't have to wait."
"How are you getting back to your room?"
"I'm walking," she said, as if he were a dullard. "Like I always do."
It wasn't a long walk, but it was cold and very late. Not a very safe endeavour for a young woman at all. "I'll accompany you."
She snorted a laugh. "Please. I don't need an escort."
"I insist," he said in his firmest, most intimidating tone. "I don't think your father would want to hear you're engaging in reckless behaviour on campus. Drinking 'til the wee hours, walking alone in the dark… lying about your computer is nothing compared to that."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you trying to blackmail me?"
"They'd never forgive me if something happened to you," he continued.
She stared a moment more before exhaling loudly and looking away. "First I couldn't get rid of Alan, now I can't get rid of you."
"I can still hear you," Alan said again.
The minicab sidled up the kerb and the driver emerged to open the passenger door. Poor drunken Alan was loaded into the back, and the taxi was sent on its way within minutes. She then looked up to Mark, her gritted teeth actually chattering as she stood there.
"Do you want my scarf?" he asked.
"No," she said, walking away in what Mark presumed was the direction of her building. He caught up in no time at all.
After a few moments of quiet, she spoke up, surprising him. "I am sorry."
"What for?"
She turned to look at him, her lips pursed. "For the essay thing."
"Oh."
"I just… wanted more time to polish it up," she went on. "But my friends insisted I go with them to this party. Just for a little bit, they said, which stretched out into a lot. I didn't want to give you a half-arsed essay."
"It was anything but," he said. "Your work is always very good. Well. Perhaps except for your four word essay, but I must admit even that did get your point across."
She smiled at that, crunching her foot down into a small pile of snow as they walked.
"Your writing style is very nice," he said. "I always enjoy reading it. It flows naturally and is very engaging. It's nothing like what the others turn in, which is just fact after fact with a bit of interstitial stuff to tie it together. Must be that creative writing influence."
She chuckled, then offered him a sincere smile. "Thank you."
He felt himself smiling in return as he contemplated how pretty she looked in the moonlight, despite the late hour and her own waning inebriation.
"Well, here I am," she said as they approached her building. "You didn't really have to walk with me, but thank you."
"It was my pleasure," he said. "Have a nice weekend."
"I will," she said as she slipped the key into the door. She then looked to him with a smirk, winking as she added, "This ball-breaking professor of mine didn't assign an essay due for Monday."
He laughed. "Goodnight."
He waited until she was safely inside before turning and heading back the way he'd come, turning the whole of the evening over in his mind as he walked along. At the forefront of those considerations was how it was the first time he could recall Bridget offering him a genuine smile.
…
Despite it being a very chilly winter, Mark was able to get some exercise, taking advantage of the Maes Glas sports complex; of particular interest was the very high quality five-a-side court as well as a squash court. He noticed his clothes were fitting him a little bit differently, and he felt in better shape all around. He often went with Patrick, but even when he went alone he was able to find students or other staff to join him for a match.
It was particularly blustery day in late February when he and Patrick happened to have the best squash match they'd ever had. Afterwards, to cool down before showering and heading into the icy weather once again, they walked around the complex, in part so that Patrick could point out where the rock climbing wall was.
"I don't think that would really be my thing," Mark quipped.
"I think you'd love it," said Patrick. "I thought the heights would terrify me, but once you're on the wall, your only focus is looking for your next hand- and footholds. It's excellent exercise both mentally and physically, and really clears your head."
"I'll think about—"
He stopped short as they passed what was labelled the ladies' gym. His eye had been caught not by motion, but rather, lack of it: just inside the door, sitting on one of the exercise bicycles with a paperback in one hand and some sort of rolled lettuce, meat and cheese sandwich in the other, was a very familiar girl. She was not pedalling, and right next to her head on the wall was a placard proclaiming in great big red letters that no food was allowed in the gym.
"Bridget?"
Her head popped up at the sound of her name. He noticed as the book lowered that she was wearing slightly more form-fitting clothing than he was used to seeing, a tank top and yoga leggings that accentuated her figure. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail on the crown of her head.
"What are you doing?" Mark continued, fighting the urge to smile. "You can't eat in here."
"I'm not eating. I'm taking an exercise break," she said.
He looked very pointedly at the motionless pedals, then at her food.
"All this lettuce means I'm burning more calories than I'm eating," she added huffily.
Mark heard his friend chuckle.
"A little light reading while you, um, exercise?" Mark asked.
She lowered the book even further so that the cover was out of view, but the two of them had already seen that it was a very obviously a Barbara Cartland romance novel. She turned a little pink and said, looking from him to Patrick as she did, "Well, I can't read the likes of Beowulf and Gilgamesh all the time."
Mark said, "You can't stay in here."
She took a bit, chewed then said, mouth half full of food, "But I'm nearly finished."
"Come on," said Patrick, obviously amused.
She popped the last of it into her mouth. Within moments, she declared, "All finished."
He smiled. "If you're not cycling," said Mark matter-of-factly, "you're loitering."
She pursed her lips, then pushed with great effort to get the stationary cycle's gears moving. "See? I'm cycling," she said. "If I get a cramp, it's all your fault. Slave driver."
"I wasn't the one to suggest you have your lunch in the ladies' gym."
At this he actually heard Patrick chuckle out loud.
"Hmm, I suppose," she said thoughtfully as her pedals once more came to a halt. "But as you said, this is the ladies' gym. I hardly think I'm the one who should be leaving." She smiled impishly.
"You have a point, Bridget," said Patrick with a smile. "We best be on our way."
"Bye, Professor Baldwin." With that she gave Mark a challenging look, then resumed reading.
The two men departed for the changing room. He heard Patrick chuckling to himself.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh, nothing," he said. "She's a firecracker, though."
Mark smiled hesitantly. "I suppose that's one way of thinking of her."
"Does she do that in class, too?"
"What do you mean?"
"Get you all defensive and worked up," Patrick said with a grin.
"I was not," Mark said curtly, realising his mistake as he said it and setting Patrick off into gales of laughter.
"Definite sparks, though," said Patrick through his breaths.
"What?" Mark asked.
"Well, you both obviously enjoyed that the entire time."
"Enjoyed arguing? You're mad."
"Some people do," said Patrick. "And that wasn't an argument. It was a verbal ballet. Quite entertaining to observe."
Mark glanced away, but smirked to himself and thought that discussions with Bridget, even if they didn't see eye to eye, were always enjoyable on some level. She did not cave in like other students often did; she did not defer to his opinion just because he was older and the instructor. "Is she like that in your class, too?"
"Not quite so much heel-digging-in," said Patrick, "but yes. She has definite opinions on literature and, as you've seen, other things. But I have a theory on that."
They reached the men's change room. Mark thought he could do with a run through the shower before heading out for his afternoon, so pulled the bag out of his locker to fish out his towel. "What's your theory?"
"Well, she's prone to saying the first thing on her mind, usually at her own expense, and she doesn't seem to let it bother her," said Patrick, pulling his bag out too, "but I think the brave face is a cover for serious self-doubt and insecurity."
"But why would she need that? She smart, she's witty—and she's very attractive."
"She has a really unique and interesting writing style, and picks up on the smallest details in the analyses she turns in, but there's always this undertone of… not really trusting herself or her capability." Patrick put his towel over his arm. "She didn't make up the story about the crashed computer because of malice. In fact, given a few minutes more she probably would have cried for real. She really… um, she means well, and she's a sweet girl."
Mark and Patrick went into their respective shower stalls. As he washed up, Mark considered what Patrick had said, and realised it confirmed everything Mark had never even consciously suspected. She was sweet, evidenced by the tenderness she had showed to her father; and perhaps the defensiveness she showed in class was due to a sensitivity about her lack of legal expertise, compounded by the way the other students teased her in class about her idealistic ways.
He would in future just have to bear this in mind; speak a little less harshly to her, give her the credit she deserved, even more so considering she did not have the same legal background that her classmates possessed.
As he left the building, saying goodbye to Patrick and heading towards his office, he was approached by one of the students from his second-track class. "I was hoping to run into you, sir," said the boy as he sidled up to Mark; he recalled his name was Williams. "I had a few questions about class yesterday—excellent class, by the way—and the assignment that's due for Tuesday."
"I have office hours in thirty minutes," said Mark, glancing to his watch. "You didn't have to ambush me outside of the fitness centre."
"Sorry, sorry," Williams said. "I had intended on doing so but seeing you here, I thought I might get a head start. I'll just go get a coffee instead… then meet you at your office." After a pause, he asked hopefully, "Would you like me to buy you a coffee too? I could bring it back to for you."
"That's not necessary," he said; although a coffee sounded good, Williams' ploy to curry favour seemed all too evident.
"Right-o. See you then." Williams sprinted off with the enthusiasm of youth he'd expect. It reminded Mark how much he appreciated that Bridget was one of the few that did not seem to want to ply him with compliments and deferrals because he was who he was.
Indeed, rather the opposite, he thought with a smile.