All He Ever Wanted by Anita Shreve

and there a cherished objet interrupted the
     monotony: a birdcage, a lead rooster, an orange studded with cloves. There was also a rather good portrait of his wife, which
     was later to find its way into the Elliot Collection.
    We sat across from each other, a large expanse of cherry wood between us. There was a folder in front of him.
    “You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked.
    “Yes, Van Tassel, I did.”
    He glanced away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. The urgency of which Moxon had spoken earlier was nowhere in evidence.
     I had then, as I had had sometimes in the past, the faint impression that Fitch did not actually like me very much — a feeling,
     I must say, he took great pains to hide — and I had long ago decided that the cause of this mild dislike was that I was not
     born and bred to my adopted New England heritage and thus lacked a certain authenticity.
    “This is a delicate matter,” Fitch began.
    The heat came instantly into my face. What might such a “delicate” matter be? Had a student complained about excessively harsh
     treatment? Had I, in my current state of distraction, been missing tutorials? Had I been unfair in my grading?
    He pushed himself away from his desk. I became aware that I was leaning forward in my own chair in the attitude of a supplicant
     and so made an attempt to readjust my posture.
    “As you know,” he began, “we share an interest in the writings of Sir Walter Scott.”
    “Just so,” I said.
    “And we are, as we should be, acquainted with the scholarship regarding this author.”
    I nodded, resisting the urge to sniff, as I fancied myself better read in this field than Fitch, whose interests were necessarily
     broader, allowing him less opportunity for depth in any one area.
    “And so it is that I have come across your monograph on the early novels of Sir Walter Scott.”
    ( Was there then the briefest jolt of alarm within my breast? I think not. Not yet.)
    “Sir,” I said.
    “And, just by the merest happenstance, I have also had occasion to come upon a monograph written by Alan Dudley Severence
     of Amherst College, which is — how shall I put this? — remarkably similar to yours.”
    I was silent.
    “And, well, to be frank, Van Tassel, there is, I am afraid, a question of plagiarism.”
    The word singed my ears and made my mouth go dry. “Sir, you cannot suggest …” I said.
    “But I’m afraid I do,” he said.
    “It cannot have happened,” I said.
    Fitch fiddled with the gold chain of his pocket watch. “Certain phrases do seem, shall we say, remarkably coincidental.”
    “But coincidence, sir, is not a crime.”
    “Not if it is unintentional.”
    “It is, sir. It is. I cannot think. I have had an impeccable —”
    “Yes, yes, so you have.”
    Fitch regarded me for some time. The fire in the grate popped suddenly, startling both of us. He rolled himself closer to
     the desk and set his elbows upon it.
    “I confess I was most surprised,” he said. “You are, after all, a man of extraordinary discipline.”
    “I am, sir.”
    “You possess a scholarship that rises well above the average.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “There should have been no need.”
    “There was no need.”
    “Yes, well.”
    Fitch studied me at great length, and I forced myself to return his scrutiny.
    “Perhaps you would like to take this monograph of Severence’s with you to your rooms to review the coincidences for yourself,”
     he said. “Certain phrases are, as you shall see…Here, I have marked them:
‘a fey man, living in a remote world of pain.’
And this one:
‘swift, competent and careless narrative.’
And this here:
‘marching fatality unbroken by the awkwardness of invention.’
Need I go on?”
    It was some seconds before I found my voice. “But, sir, are not certain phrases, such as
if we admit
and
we make no sufficient allowance
and
at first sight
built into common discourse?”
    “Yes, certainly, but I am afraid those are not