The Class

He felt noblesse oblige to show her amorous attention. He tried making love to her with increased ardor. But gradually he grew resentful of this obligation to display connubial affection.

Sure, Sara deserved respect. She was a loyal wife. The mother of his son. And a true friend. But she was not exciting. Not merely now, when she had let herself put on some weight. But as far as he recalled, she had never been that sensual.

Perhaps that was what had so drawn him to Felicity. She awakened in him dormant feelings he had thought forever gone. She was dynamic. Not just physically, but intellectually.

And there was something else, although Ted did not realize it at first. The greatest thrill of all was that it was. Illicit.

After a while, he reassured himself that Sara had not noticed anything. Still, her very presence was an inconvenience. Assignations with Felicity had to be scheduled for afternoons or early evenings. Only rarely could they meet at night.

Once he fabricated yet another college banquet. And Sara, faithful, trusting (boring), never even checked. Even her naive passivity started to annoy him.

Felicity kept urging him to spend a weekend with her. But what pretext could he find? Oxford functions seemed to shut down automatically on Saturday and Sunday.

Then Fate flashed him an amber light, suggesting he go forward — but with caution.

Philip Harrison ’33, currently a high executive of the U.S. International Banking Commission, arrived in London on a ten-day visit for the government. Generous as usual, he took a suite at Claridge’s next to his own, so that his daughter, son-in-law, and beloved grandson could enjoy a break from academic tedium.

As soon as her father had announced his visit, Sara began to check the theater listings in The Times. While her husband looked for a plausible excuse to free himself to spend the weekend driving through the romantic villages of Gloucestershire.

Then he and Felicity could spend entire evenings in one of the historic Cotswold inns. And make some history themselves.

Sara Lambros was happy to be staying at Claridge’s. Not that she particularly enjoyed elegant hotels, but quite simply because she reveled in the central heating.

And the warmth of her father’s love.

Philip Harrison could not help mentioning that his daughter looked pale. Her fire, he thought, was burning low. Indeed, it seemed as if her pilot light was all but extinguished. Sara blamed the frigid Oxford weather. And yet how could she explain the fact that Ted looked radiant?

She argued that hard work obviously agreed with him. She recounted his triumph with the Philological Society and little Ted’s success at the local primary school. Now he’d taken up soccer.

“You’re a real little jock, aren’t you?” his grandfather said, smiling affectionately.

“And he’s not too bad at Latin either,” Sara added proudly. “The English really start them early.”

“I guess they’re still culturally more advanced than we are, her father observed. “Their theater certainly is. I had to resort to my contacts at the Embassy just to get us four seats to Olivier’s Othello.”

“Oh, Daddy, I’ve been dying to see it. When are we going?”

“The best I could do was the Saturday matinee.”

“Oh gosh,” Ted responded anxiously, “Saturday’s gonna be a problem for me. You know I’ve almost finished the first draft of my Euripides book….”

“Yes, Sara told me. Congratulations.”

“Well, Cameron Wylie called me last night and said he wanted to spend the whole weekend going over it with me. I didn’t even have a chance to mention it to Sara.”

“Oh, Daddy,” little Ted complained, “I like it here in London.”

“Well, you can stay with Mummy and Grandpa,” he reassured his son. And then turned to Mr. Harrison. “I’m really sorry, but it was an opportunity I just couldn’t pass up. Don’t you agree, honey?”

Though deeply hurt, she was forced to play the reluctant accomplice.

“I guess Ted’s right,” she said loyally. “How long will you be gone?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be back in London in time for dinner Sunday night.”

The seven-hundred-year-old George Inn in the Cotswold town of Winchcombe was once used by pilgrims to St. Kenelm’s tomb.

This weekend it was playing host to a twentieth-century couple on an extremely secular journey.

“What do you think?” Felicity asked, as she unpacked a small bottle of vodka and began to pour it into the hotel glasses.

“It’s sort of a medieval version of a motel,” he answered.

Ted felt decidedly uneasy. Winchcombe was a relatively short drive from Oxford and someone might chance to see them. And more importantly the early pangs of conscience he had felt now blossomed into full-fledged qualms.

He could not silence an inner voice that kept reiterating, Lambros, what you’re doing’s called adultery. And it’s a sin. You have a wife and kid. And what about those sacred vows you took?

Ah yes, but that was long ago. And in another country. And besides, the wench has changed. And dammit, the times have changed as well.

“Ted, where are you?”

Felicity’s voice shattered his ethical reverie. And for the first time he became aware that her hands were exploring intimate areas of his anatomy.

“Are you having second thoughts — or cold feet?” she inquired coquettishly.

“Neither,” he replied, to convince her if not himself.

“Hey,” she coaxed. “Then will you take your clothes off and give me a little proof of your enthusiasm?”

Zippers glided open. She stood enticingly before him, Aphrodite in a medieval inn.

He could think of nothing else as she now beckoned him to bed.

They drove back Sunday afternoon and reached Oxford just as darkness was approaching. And it was not merely chance that made him choose the Folly Bridge for her to drop him, so he could wend his way discreetly homeward in the dusk.

For throughout their wildly carnal weekend, whenever the ecstasy abated, Ted had been unable to fight off the demons of remorse. Despite inward invocations of the New Morality, his conscience was still rooted firmly in the fifties. And he already felt that he would have to pay a price for his brief moment of adventure.

But he never dreamed that it would be so soon.

The moment he opened the door of Addison Crescent, he found the incarnation of the Furies waiting for him.

“You left the house unlocked,” said Cameron Wylie, his face half in shadows.

“Yeah,” said Ted distractedly. “Uh — I’m sorry I kept you waiting, but I didn’t know you were coming —”

“Nor did I,” the Regius Professor answered, traces of displeasure in his voice.

“I tried ringing you, then came round to leave a note. But then I saw the door was open and I assumed you’d be arriving about now. So I waited.”

There was a sudden silence. And then Wylie burst out angrily, “You bloody fool. You bloody, stupid fool.”

“I’m sorry, Professor, I don’t understand,” Ted stammered, instinctively demoting himself back to pupil’s status.

“I don’t care about your morals, Lambros. I just gave you credit for more common sense. I’ll grant adultery’s as popular at Oxford as any place on earth. But most of those who practice it don’t play with undergraduates. That girl’s nearly half your age.”