“I’ve been unduly extravagant, Mrs. Marcella,” he wrote once, at the end of the second year.  “I’ve left the rheumaticky old woman to a sort of patent rubbing oil very much in vogue just now, and I’ve resigned the coming babies to the midwife at Carlossie, and been to Kraill’s Lendicott Trust lectures at Edinburgh.  He seems, in my humble and very uninstructed opinion, to have gone very far since ‘Questing Cells.’  The lectures were on sex psychology.  He admits that they are coloured by what he learnt at Heidelberg last year.  But he goes further than Germans could possibly go.  There’s a gentleness, a humanity about him, and a spirituality one doesn’t expect from the author of ‘Questing Cells’ or from those Lendicott lectures a few years ago.  The thing that struck me about him is that he’s so consummately wise—­wise enough, Mrs. Marcella, to grasp at the significance of an amoeba as well as that of the Lord of Hosts!  I’m a small man—­a little G.P. in an obscure Highland village in rather shabby tweed knickerbockers and Inverness cape (yes, the same ones—­still no new clothes!  What would be the use in wasting money on adorning an old ruffian like me?) But I went up to him, sort of shaking at the knees, after the second lecture, and discussed a point with him.  The point was not what I was wanting to know about.  I was wanting, very much, to have a ‘bit crack’ with him, as they call it here.  Lassie, he asked me to lunch with him the next day, and he talked to me as if I was his long-lost brother.  In fact, he seems to think that everybody is!  He came off the rostrum completely.  Even when he’s lecturing he seems to be talking to you personally, with an engaging sort of friendliness.  He puts me a good bit in mind of Professor Craigie when I was a lad.  I felt as if I was a baby in arms beside him, but he seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see him.  No, he hasn’t got a long white beard, and he doesn’t look a bit like Ruskin or Tennyson or Dickens.  Do you remember when you said you thought he had bushy eyebrows and a white beard, years ago?  He’s not above forty-five, I should say; but I’m no judge of age after folks are forty, I’m so afraid of putting my foot in it.  He’s much bigger than me (I’m talking about appearance now).  He gives one the impression of quick blue eyes.  I can’t remember any more about him; I remember every word he said, but not how he looked when he said it.  And now I suppose you want to know all he said; you have an Examining Board’s thirst for information, Mrs. Marcella!  But I’m sending you the printed lectures and some news.  He told me he’s going to Harvard this year.  In fact, he’s there now; and after that he’s on his way to Australia.  I gather that you’re a wandering Jew’s journey from Sydney, but wouldn’t it be worth your while to take that man of yours and go to hear him?  It isn’t often one gets a chance of seeing in the flesh someone who has got into your imagination as Kraill got into yours and mine.  I’d walk all the way from Carlossie