“James, Mr Bingham of the British Museum wants to see you again.”
The philosopher rose with a dazed look, which always indicates in such men the fact that they regard philosophy as a familiar thing, but practical life as a weird and unnerving vision, and walked dubiously out of the room.
“I hope you do not mind my being aware of it, Miss Chadd,” said Basil Grant, “but I hear that the British Museum has recognized one of the men who have deserved well of their commonwealth. It is true, is it not, that Professor Chadd is likely to be made keeper of Asiatic manuscripts?”
The grim face of the spinster betrayed a great deal of pleasure and a great deal of pathos also. “I believe it's true,” she said. “If it is, it will not only be great glory which women, I assure you, feel a great deal, but great relief, which they feel more; relief from worry from a lot of things. James' health has never been good, and while we are as poor as we are he had to do journalism and coaching, in addition to his own dreadful grinding notions and discoveries, which he loves more than man, woman, or child. I have often been afraid that unless something of this kind occurred we should really have to be careful of his brain. But I believe it is practically settled.”
“I am delighted,” began Basil, but with a worried face, “but these red-tape negotiations are so terribly chancy that I really can't advise you to build on hope, only to be hurled down into bitterness. I've known men, and good men like your brother, come nearer than this and be disappointed. Of course, if it is true—”
“If it is true,” said the woman fiercely, “it means that people who have never lived may make an attempt at living.”
Even as she spoke the professor came into the room still with the dazed look in his eyes.
“Is it true?” asked Basil, with burning eyes.
“Not a bit true,” answered Chadd after a moment's bewilderment. “Your argument was in three points fallacious.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Grant.