April came, and earth was called upon to part with Sir William Crookes, who was perhaps the first to suggest that the atoms of earth are of electric origin. Hardly had he read of Sir William’s death when Marvin was invaded by the influenza germ. It laid him low, kept him in bed six weeks, and left him with a weakened heart. The man who sailed for home was thin enough to serve for his own radiograph. If Gratia suggested pearl, he suggested a structure of calcium less beautiful.
Chapter 21. Scandium
Late in May, having landed in New York and been granted a month’s leave, he went on Sunday morning to call on Dr. Grein. The landlady said the gentleman was not in, that he had called a taxicab and driven off to Riverside Park.
Marvin walked round into the park, surprised that his vigorous friend should need a cab for so short a distance.
The great city seemed to have grown in his absence. Here, where perchance some old Dutch windmill once stood, a steady stream of cars was passing, dangerous to cross. Even the river looked more populous. There came into his mind something that Beers had once quoted at Shef in an effort to civilize the sophomores: “Cities will crowd to its edge in a blacker, incessanter line.”
He walked south, stopping occasionally to rest his heart, to where a great tomb of white granite shone, and found Grein sitting near it, with lackluster eyes. But the meeting was cordial enough. Some spark of ancestral custom awoke in Grein, and he kissed his friend on both cheeks. Then he sat down again, as if his knees refused to function.
“I can’t sleep. My hands are cold all the time. I can’t remember my appointments. I can’t read mathematics. I haven’t read the stuff you sent me from France.”
“I’m lucky,” laughed Marvin, who was handsome in bones, and showed some of them when he laughed.
“Marvin, I’m afraid I shall have to quit.”
“No, Dr. Grein.”