Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own.  He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid.  He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision.  Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being.

There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one.  It numbered nine, and four of these were women students.  As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted.  And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed.

Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation.

From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man.  To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered.  At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out.  Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease.  And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it.  Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—­Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning.  And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness.  Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic.  And Ramage too—­about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor.  But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes.