His picture began to shape itself into Ethel, and her mysterious mother, and the vague dexterous Chaffery holding him back, entangled in an impalpable net from that bright and glorious ascent to performance and distinction.  Leaky boots and the splash of cabs for all his life as his portion!  Already the Forbes Medal, the immediate step, was as good as lost....

What on earth had he been thinking about?  He fell foul of his upbringing.  Men of the upper or middle classes were put up to these things by their parents; they were properly warned against involving themselves in this love nonsense before they were independent.  It was much better....

Everything was going.  Not only his work—­his scientific career, but the Debating Society, the political movement, all his work for Humanity....  Why not be resolute—­even now?...  Why not put the thing clearly and plainly to her?  Or write?  If he wrote now he could get the advantage of the evening at the Library.  He must ask her to forgo these walks home—­at least until the next examination. She would understand.  He had a qualm of doubt whether she would understand....  He grew angry at this possibility.  But it was no good mincing matters.  If once he began to consider her—­Why should he consider her in that way?  Simply because she was unreasonable!

Lewisham had a transitory gust of anger.

Yet that abandonment of the walks insisted on looking mean to him.  And she would think it mean.  Which was very much worse, somehow. Why mean?  Why should she think it mean?  He grew angry again.

The portly museum policeman who had been watching him furtively, wondering why a student should sit in front of the “Sacrifice of Lystra” and gnaw lips and nails and moustache, and scowl and glare at that masterpiece, saw him rise suddenly to his feet with an air of resolution, spin on his heel, and set off with a quick step out of the gallery.  He looked neither to the right nor the left.  He passed out of sight down the staircase.

“Gone to get some more moustache to eat, I suppose,” said the policeman reflectively....

“One ’ud think something had bit him.”

After some pensive moments the policeman strolled along down the gallery and came to a stop opposite the cartoon.

“Figgers is a bit big for the houses,” said the policeman, anxious to do impartial justice.  “But that’s Art.  I lay ’e couldn’t do anything ... not arf so good.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE FRIENDS OF PROGRESS MEET.

The night next but one after this meditation saw a new order in the world.  A young lady dressed in an astrachan-edged jacket and with a face of diminished cheerfulness marched from Chelsea to Clapham alone, and Lewisham sat in the flickering electric light of the Education Library staring blankly over a business-like pile of books at unseen things.