“For heaven’s sake, don’t attempt conversion!”
“On no account whatever. But I should like her to see what is meant by perception and conception, by the relativity of time and space—and a few simple things of that kind!”
Barfoot laughed heartily.
“By-the-bye,” he said, shifting to safer ground, “my brother Tom is in London, and in wretched health. His angel is from the wrong quarter, from the nethermost pit. I seriously believe that she has a plan for killing her husband. You remember my mentioning in a letter his horse-accident? He has never recovered from that, and as likely as not never will. His wife brought him away from Madeira just when he ought to have stopped there to get well. He settled himself at Torquay, whilst that woman ran about to pay visits. It was understood that she should go back to him at Torquay, but this she at length refused to do. The place was too dull; it didn’t suit her extremely delicate health; she must live in London, her pure native air. If Tom had taken any advice, he would have let her live just where she pleased, thanking Heaven that she was at a distance from him. But the poor fellow can’t be away from her. He has come up, and here I feel convinced he will die. It’s a very monstrous thing, but uncommonly like women in general who have got a man into their power.”
Micklethwaite shook his head.
“You are too hard upon them. You have been unlucky. You know my view of your duty.”
“I begin to think that marriage isn’t impossible for me,” said Barfoot, with a grave smile.
“Ha! Capital!”
“But as likely as not it will be marriage without forms—simply a free union.”
The mathematician was downcast.