“Oh yes,” said Julius; “that’s a good idea.”

“And I,” said Lefevre, “must have a cup of tea in the meantime.  Come and sit down, and tell me where you have been.”

But when they had sat down, Julius was little inclined to divagate into an account of his travels.  His glance swept round and noted everything; he remarked on a soft effect of a shaft of sunshine that lit up the small conservatory, and burnished the green of a certain plant; he perceived a fine black Persian cat, the latest pet of the Club, and exclaimed, “What a beautiful, superb creature!” He called it, and it came, daintily sniffed at his leg, and leaped on his lap, where he stroked and fondled it.  And all the while he continued to discuss illusion, while Lefevre poured and drank tea (tea, which Julius would not share:  tea, he said, did not agree with him).

“It bothers me,” he said, “to imagine how a man like Embro gets any satisfaction out of life, for ever mumbling the bare dry bones of science.  Such a life as his might as well be passed in the receiver of an air-pump.”

“Still the old Julius!” said the doctor, with a smile.  “Still dreaming and wandering, interested in everything, but having nothing to do!”

“Nothing to do, my dear fellow?” said Julius.  “I’ve all the world to enjoy!” and he buried his cheek in the soft fur of the cat.

“A purpose in life, however,” said Lefevre, “gives an extraordinary zest to all enjoyment.”

“To live,” said Julius, “is surely the purpose of life.  Any smaller, any more obvious purpose, will spoil life, just as it spoils Art.”

“I believe, my boy, you are wrong in both,” said Lefevre.  “Art without a purpose goes off into all sorts of madness and extravagance, and so does life.”

“You really think so?” said Julius, his attention fixed for an instant, and looking as if he had set up the point and regarded it at a distance.  “Yes; perhaps it does.”  But the next moment his attention seemed given to the cat; he fondled it, and talked to it soothingly.

“I am sure of it,” said Lefevre.  “Just listen to me, Julius.  You have wonderful intelligence and penetration in everything.  You are fond of science; science needs men like you more than the dull plodders that usually take to it.  When you were in Charbon’s class you were his favourite and his best pupil,—­don’t I remember?—­and if you liked you could be the greatest physician of the age.”

“It is treason to yourself to say such a thing.”

“Your fame would soon eclipse mine.”

“Fame! fame!” exclaimed Julius, for an instant showing irritation.  “I would not give a penny-piece for fame if all the magicians of the East came crying it down the streets!  Why should I seek fame?  What good would it do me if I had it?”

“Well, well,” said Lefevre; “let fame alone:  you might be as unknown as you like, and do a world of good in practice among the poor.”