We sat at a table in the corner, our reflections mirrored in the black of the plate-glass windows. Henry took out a pen and began to fill out Julian's evaluation.

I looked at my own copy while I ate my sandwich. The questions were ranked from one—poor to five—excellent: Is this faculty member prompt? Well-prepared? Ready to offer help outside the classroom? Henry, without the slightest pause, had gone down the list and circled all fives. Now I saw him writing the number 19 in a blank.

"What's that for?"

"The number of classes I've taken with Julian," he said, without looking up.

"You've taken nineteen classes with Julian?"

"Well, that's tutorials and everything," he said, irritated.

For a moment there was no sound except the scratching of Henry's pen and then distant crash of dish racks in the kitchen.

"Does everybody get these, or just us?" I said.

"Just us."

"I wonder why they even bother."

"For their records, I suppose." He had turned to the last page, which was mostly blank. Please elaborate here on any additional compliments or criticisms you may have of this teacher. Extra sheets of paper may be attached if necessary.

His pen hovered over the paper. Then he folded the sheet and pushed it aside.

"What," I said, "aren't you going to write anything?"

Henry took a sip of his tea. "How," he said, "can I possibly make the Dean of Studies understand that there is a divinity in our midst?"

—Donna Tartt, The Secret History