“I think—in that matter—one must not allow one’s mind to be led away?”
“But one must keep an open mind.”
“Are you familiar with Professor Tyndall?”
“Only by meeting him in books about Huxley.”
“Ah—he was very different; very different.”
“Huxley” said Miriam with intense bitterness “was an egoistic adolescent—all his life. I never came across anything like his conceited complacency in my life. The very look of his side-whiskers,—well, there you have the whole man.” Her heart burned and ached, beating out the words. She rose to go holding the volume in hands that shook to the beating of her heart. Far away in the bitter mist of the darkening room was the strange little figure.
“Let me just write your name in the book.”
“Oh, well, really, it is too bad—thank you very much.”
He carried the book to the window-sill and stood writing his bent head very dark and round in the feeble grey light. Happy monk alone up under the roof with his Plato. It was a shame.