Bingham had by this time fastened his eyes keenly on Basil Grant and kept them there.
“Come, Mr Grant,” he said. “Do I seriously understand you to suggest that the Government pay Professor Chadd an extraordinarily high salary simply on the ground that he has (pardon the phrase) gone mad? That he should be paid more than four good clerks solely on the ground that he is flinging his boots about in the back yard?”
“Precisely,” said Grant composedly.
“That this absurd payment is not only to run on with the absurd dancing, but actually to stop with the absurd dancing?”
“One must stop somewhere,” said Grant. “Of course.”
Bingham rose and took up his perfect stick and gloves.
“There is really nothing more to be said, Mr Grant,” he said coldly. “What you are trying to explain to me may be a joke—a slightly unfeeling joke. It may be your sincere view, in which case I ask your pardon for the former suggestion. But, in any case, it appears quite irrelevant to my duties. The mental morbidity, the mental downfall, of Professor Chadd, is a thing so painful to me that I cannot easily endure to speak of it. But it is clear there is a limit to everything. And if the Archangel Gabriel went mad it would sever his connection, I am sorry to say, with the British Museum Library.”
He was stepping towards the door, but Grant's hand, flung out in dramatic warning, arrested him.
“Stop!” said Basil sternly. “Stop while there is yet time. Do you want to take part in a great work, Mr Bingham? Do you want to help in the glory of Europe—in the glory of science? Do you want to carry your head in the air when it is bald or white because of the part that you bore in a great discovery? Do you want—”
Bingham cut in sharply: