In such a feeling did Conyers watch this light as, leaving the high-road, he took a path that led along the river towards it. As he drew nigher, he saw that the light came from the open window of a room which gave upon a little garden,—a mere strip of ground fenced off from the path by a low paling. With a curiosity he could not master, he stopped and looked in. At a large table, covered with books and papers, and on which a skull also stood, a young man was seated, his head leaning on his hand, apparently in deep thought, while a girl was slowly pacing the little chamber as she talked to him.
“It does not require,” said she, in a firm voice, “any great effort of memory to bear in mind that a nerve, an artery, and a vein always go in company.”
“Not for you, perhaps,—not for you, Polly.”
“Not for any one, I 'm sure. Your fine dragoon friend with the sprained ankle might be brought to that amount of instruction by one telling of it.”
“Oh, he 's no fool, I promise you, Polly. Don't despise him because he has plenty of money and can lead a life of idleness.”
“I neither despise nor esteem him, nor do I mean that he should divert our minds from what we are at. Now for the popliteal space. Can you describe it? Do you know where it is, or anything about it?”
“I do,” said he, doggedly, as he pushed his long hair back from his eyes, and tried to think,—“I do, but I must have time. You must n't hurry me.”
She made no reply, but continued her walk in silence.
“I know all about it, Polly, but I can't describe it. I can't describe anything; but ask me a question about it.”
“Where is it,—where does it lie?”