Waiting around after class for Helen Maud Cam was a pretty interesting experience. I did it three times and each time a large group of students held her long after the hour, asking questions. It seemed to be the part of the lecture that she enjoyed most. Answering each question with humor, precision and the dismissal, she would then swoop down on the next waiting student with eyes a-twinkle and relish in her manner.

When it came my turn, I asked for an interview. The smile vanished and she said, "Oh, can't you let me off this time?" I became the jolly one then, assuring her it wouldn't be bad, and that she should be well conditioned to interviews by this time. "That is just it, there have been so many. Well, come along, we'll get it over with."

Before we could get out of the room a Cambridge lady materialized at the door with a manuscript she wanted Miss Cam to read. A quick appointment was made, and we started out for the Cam suite in the Hotel Commander.

It had been raining, so I mentioned the poor sewerage system in Cambridge. "Yes, I've wondered why there are so many puddles. Or do you call them puddles? . . There are so many words; I'm learning, of course; but take 'pitcher' for instance; in England we call it 'jug' and a 'pitcher' is something altogether different. . ."

When we got to her third floor room, the telephone was ringing. It was someone asking her to attend something. She trotted across the room, checked her engagement calendar, trotted back and accepted.

"Well, now. What is it exactly you want?" I told her it was to be called a "Profile" and referred her to those in "The New Yorker," which I saw she had been reading. "But they're mythical," she said. I made a noise to indicate bewilderment. "They're mythical, aren't they? Those people surely aren't real!"

Then she ran through the story of her life. It is mostly a record of academic achievements and in almost all of them she has been something of a pioneer. Miss Cam was born 63 years ago in Essex County, England. "I think the most unusual thing about my childhood was that I had no formal schooling. I was one of nine children. My mother came from an Oxford background, and my father was a parson, and together they educated us all. I tried three times to get into Oxford by passing the 'locals' but couldn't. They did, however, show I had a proficiency for history so when I went to the University of London that became my primary study. After graduation, I received a fellowship to Bryn Mawr and taught there for two years. That was 40 years ago; this is my first time back."

Miss Cam laughs a lot when she talks and soon she had me laughing with her. But this easy laughter didn't indicate a vacilating or pliant personality; it was not an invitation to conversation. It was, however, an indication of a very sunny disposition. She can read a lengthy stretch of medieval constitutional law (lapsing occasionally into Latin and Anglo-Saxon) with all the gusto and delight of Mary Margaret McBridge revealing a new recipe for banana cream pie.

"In 1921 I went to Cambridge on a research fellowship and remained there until President Jordan flew across last spring and asked me to come to Harvard . . . Well, I guess that is about all."

There were fewer interruptions for laughter now, and a telephone ring at that moment suggested my time was up. But I held firm. When Miss Cam returned from the call, I hurriedly mentioned her copies of Henry Adams, one of her predecessors in medieval history. What did she think of his pot shots at Harvard? "Oh, I've really not been here long enough to say. He was an extraordinarily clever man, though." Well--what about hobbies? The Last Resort. "I like walking and cycling; I do wish I had brought over my bicycle. And I also do some water-coloring. Those on the wall. I got some wonderful opportunities for painting when I was in Burma."

Burma! She was talking now with an air of finality and I began to move towards the door. "Yes, I've a sister there whom I visited in 1936 for a year." I asked the obvious question. "I was most impressed with the way the natives held themselves." The way they what? "Held themselves. It's my theory that the English don't hold themselves up so well because of their climate, constantly walking into the wind and so forth, whereas the Burmese grow up towards the sun. You know, Memorial Church reminds me somehow of Burma." I suggested she meant Memorial Hall. It could be Burmese. "No, Memorial Church, with all its whiteness, struck me that way when I first saw it."

My hand was on the door knob now, Miss Cam close behind me. She possibly sensed my frustrated and harried feeling. Her eyes lit up again. "Do you want an Impression?" I said yes. "I am impressed with the immense amount of waste here. Why, all those lovely envelopes. I can hardly bear to throw them out. In England, we use gummed labels and use the envelops over and over again. There seems to be great waste everywhere." The telephone had begun to ring again. I opened the door and asked rather foolishly if she had done much reading of American fiction? We were both sort of jumping up and down with impatience by now. The hotel maid came out in the hall to watch. "Oh my yes," replied Miss Cam to my question, "I much admire Dorothy Canfield and I read a novel about New Orleans--what was it? which I liked very much." She picked up the phone and smiled with anticipation. As I walked down the dark hallway, past the still inquisitive chambermaid, I could hear Helen Mand Cam in process of accepting another invitation to speak. No dust will settle while she's about.