It runs:
If two magnitudes, one of which is determined by a straight
line and the other by a parabola approach one another,
the rectangle included by the revolution of each will be
equal to the sum of a series of indeterminate rectangles.
Now this is,—quite frankly,—dull. The situation is there; the idea is good, and, whether one agrees or not, is at least as brilliantly original as even the best of our recent novels. But I find it necessary to alter the presentation of the plot a little bit. As I re-edit it the opening of the Calculus runs thus:
On a bright morning in June along a path gay with the
opening efflorescence of the hibiscus and entangled here
and there with the wild blossoms of the convolvulus,—two
magnitudes might have been seen approaching one another.
The one magnitude who held a tennis-racket in his hand,
carried himself with a beautiful erectness and moved
with a firmness such as would have led Professor Murray
to exclaim in despair—Let it be granted that A. B.
(for such was our hero’s name) is a straight line. The
other magnitude, which drew near with a step at once
elusive and fascinating, revealed as she walked a figure
so exquisite in its every curve as to call from her
geometrical acquaintances the ecstatic exclamation, “Let
it be granted that M is a parabola.”
The beautiful magnitude of whom we have last spoken,
bore on her arm as she walked, a tiny dog over which
her fair head was bent in endearing caresses; indeed
such was her attention to the dog Vi (his full name was
Velocity but he was called Vi for short) that her wayward
footsteps carried her not in a straight line but in a
direction so constantly changing as to lead that acute
observer, Professor Murray, to the conclusion that her
path could only be described by the amount of attraction
ascribable to Vi.
Guided thus along their respective paths, the two
magnitudes presently met with such suddenness that they
almost intersected.
“I beg your pardon,” said the first magnitude very
rigidly.
“You ought to indeed,” said the second rather sulkily,
“you’ve knocked Vi right out of my arms.”
She looked round despairingly for the little dog which
seemed to have disappeared in the long grass.
“Won’t you please pick him up?” she pleaded.
“Not exactly in my line, you know,” answered the other
magnitude, “but I tell you what I’ll do, if you’ll stand
still, perfectly still where you are, and let me take
hold of your hand, I’ll describe a circle!”
“Oh, aren’t you clever!” cried the girl, clapping her
hands. “What a lovely idea! You describe a circle all
around me, and then we’ll look at every weeny bit of it
and we’ll be sure to find Vi—”
She reached out her hand to the other magnitude who
clasped it with an assumed intensity sufficient to retain
it.
At this moment a third magnitude broke on the scene:—a
huge oblong, angular figure, very difficult to describe,
came revolving towards them.
“M,” it shouted, “Emily, what are you doing?”
“My goodness,” said the second magnitude in alarm, “it’s
MAMA.”
I may say that the second instalment of Dr. Murray’s fascinating romance will appear in the next number of the “Illuminated Bookworm”, the great adult-juvenile vehicle of the newer thought in which these theories of education are expounded further.
VII.—AN EVERY-DAY EXPERIENCE
He came across to me in the semi-silence room of the club.
“I had a rather queer hand at bridge last night,” he said.