He argued on social questions with his uncle, who was a prominent local Conservative.  His uncle’s controversial methods were coarse in the extreme.  Socialists, he said, were thieves.  The object of Socialism was to take away what a man earned and give it to “a lot of lazy scoundrels.”  Also rich people were necessary.  “If there weren’t well-off people, how d’ye think I’d get a livin’?  Hey?  And where’d you be then?” Socialism, his uncle assured him, was “got up” by agitators.  “They get money out of young Gabies like you, and they spend it in champagne.”  And thereafter he met Mr. Lewisham’s arguments with the word “Champagne” uttered in an irritating voice, followed by a luscious pantomime of drinking.

Naturally Lewisham felt a little lonely, and perhaps he laid stress upon it in his letters to Miss Heydinger.  It came to light that she felt rather lonely too.  They discussed the question of True as distinguished from Ordinary Friendship, and from that they passed to Goethe and Elective Affinities.  He told her how he looked for her letters, and they became more frequent.  Her letters were Indisputably well written.  Had he been a journalist with a knowledge of “per thou.” he would have known each for a day’s work.  After the practical plumber had been asking what he expected to make by this here science of his, re-reading her letters was balsamic.  He liked Rossetti—­the exquisite sense of separation in “The Blessed Damozel” touched him.  But, on the whole, he was a little surprised at Miss Heydinger’s taste in poetry.  Rossetti was so sensuous ... so florid.  He had scarcely expected that sort of thing.

Altogether he had returned to the schools decidedly more interested in her than when they had parted.  And the curious vague memories of her appearance as something a little frayed and careless, vanished at sight of her emerging from the darkness of the lift.  Her hair was in order, as the light glanced through it it looked even pretty, and she wore a well-made, dark-green and black dress, loose-gathered as was the fashion in those days, that somehow gave a needed touch of warmth to her face.  Her hat too was a change from the careless lumpishness of last year, a hat that, to a feminine mind, would have indicated design.  It suited her—­these things are past a male novelist’s explaining.

“I have this book of yours, Miss Heydinger,” he said.

“I am glad you have written that paper on Socialism,” she replied, taking the brown-covered volume.

They walked along the little passage towards the biological laboratory side by side, and she stopped at the hat pegs to remove her hat.  For that was the shameless way of the place, a girl student had to take her hat off publicly, and publicly assume the holland apron that was to protect her in the laboratory.  Not even a looking-glass!

“I shall come and hear your paper,” she said.

“I hope you will like it,” said Lewisham at the door of the laboratory.