Friedrich Bhaer stood dazedly at the entrance to Plumfield, grinning. This in itself was not an uncommon occurence; the Professor was known by his boys as a genial fellow, and indeed he was. What was not quite ordinary was the reason for his smile…
The Professor sighed, gaze unfocused. Just a moment ago (a moment, a few days, a year, prut! Who could tell?), he had been admiring the lush disorder of the school gardens when his wife, his own Jo, had come up the path, rosy and laughing and rumpled from the wind. He had smiled (ach! Had he smiled! With such loveliness before him, what else could he do?), and started to wave, when she had run up and, before he could inquire of his Professorin what she was thinking, kissed him with much… much…he knew not the word. All he knew was that his greeting had died on his lips, and he had returned the kiss (such a cold phrase for such a warm, lovely thing!) hungrily until she pulled away, smiling up at him and stroking his cheek with a thin brown hand while he tried to collect his tumbled thoughts.
He could say no more; laughing, she'd shook her head and said, with a nearly mischievous air:
"Hello, Professor. Haven't you a class to be teaching?"
And then she'd run off on some errand, leaving him where he stood now, smiling dreamily at the garden and thinking that his Jo was the most...exciting...woman he'd ever known...
And the boys were bewildered as to why the Professor stared frankly at his wife all through dinner.