“Are there any other standards for decent people?”

“That depends on the part of the world the decent people find themselves in, and the education they have had, and the place in society they occupy. Does Tasset strike you as an immoral fellow?”

“If he is loose with women I don’t see that there can be any argument about it.”

“Strictly between ourselves, I don’t like him either. Still, if it’s his nature to chase women, should we judge him?”

“There is such a thing as self-control.”

“You certainly ought to know. You look as though you had controlled yourself, I must say.”

“Certainly. In my profession anything else would be unthinkable.”

“The unthinkable has always been rather in my line. You don’t appear to have controlled yourself at the table, by the way. Quite a lad with the knife and fork, aren’t you?”

“That is different. It harms nobody.”

“I see. You don’t think this control business can be overdone, do you?”

“How could it be?”

“Well, you know what Galen says: If natural seed be overlong kept, it turns to poison.”

“Who was Galen?”

“Never heard of Galen? Claudius Galen? The father of medical practice?”

“Is he dead?”

“A small matter of seventeen hundred years.”

“Ah. Well I dare say his opinion has been contradicted since then. Medical opinion is always changing. Do you see The Reader’s Digest?”

“Galen wasn’t just a pill-roller. He was a first-rate psychologist. The remark I have quoted to you is really a philosophical opinion phrased as a medical maxim.”

“But it is out-dated.”

“Damn it, wisdom is never out-dated.”

“But how can the opinions of a doctor who died so long ago be any good today? In religion, of course, age is a good thing. But not in medicine.”

“All right, Mackilwraith, you win. I feel myself to be an angel, beating my ineffectual wings in vain against the granite fortress of your obtuse self-righteousness.”

“You’re not an angel. I think you’re rather silly. Why do you clutter your mind with what a dead doctor said?”

“Galen isn’t just a dead doctor, man; he was a great spirit. Probably a lot of his ideas are fantastic now. But he had flashes of insight which we can’t discount. That’s what makes a man great; his flashes of insight, when he pierces through the nonsense of his time, and gets at something that really matters.”

“You are a lucky man to have room to spare in your head for truck of that sort.”

“Truck?”

“Most of us find it hard enough to keep track of the things that we really need to know.”

“Oho, now I know what you are. You are an advocate of Useful Knowledge.”

“Certainly.”

“You say that a man’s first job is to earn a living, and that the first task of education is to equip him for that job?”

“Of course.”

“Well, allow me to introduce myself to you as an advocate of Ornamental Knowledge. You like the mind to be a neat machine, equipped to work efficiently, if narrowly, and with no extra bits or useless parts. I like the mind to be a dustbin of scraps of brilliant fabric, odd gems, worthless but fascinating curiosities, tinsel, quaint bits of carving, and a reasonable amount of healthy dirt. Shake the machine and it goes out of order; shake the dustbin and it adjusts itself beautifully to its new position.”

“As a mathematician I can hardly agree with you that disorder is preferable to order.”

“Mathematician my foot! Do you know anything about linear algebra? How are you on diophantine equations? Could you tell me, in a few words, what Bertrand Russell has added to modern mathematical concepts? You are a mathematician in the way that a teacher of beginners on the piano is a musician!”

“I know what I know,” said Hector, “and it is sufficient for my needs.”

“But you don’t begin to realize how much you don’t know,” said Humphrey, “and I shrewdly suspect that that is the source of your remarkable strength of character. For you are strong, you know; you talk like a fool, but you have amazing personal impact.”

It was at this moment that Roger returned, and sat heavily down in his chair.

“How’s the tongue?” asked Humphrey.

“Thwobs,” said Roger.

“Aha. Swollen too, eh?”

Roger nodded. There was a gloomy silence. Humphrey slipped down into his chair and closed his eyes.

Hector looked at Roger long and closely. It was his duty, he knew, to speak to him about Griselda. He ought to tell this man to stop annoying Griselda with his dishonourable attentions. But how could he do so? It was not that he lacked moral authority; he knew what was right, and he knew what he should do about it. But how could he rebuke Roger without giving away the fact that he, Hector, loved Griselda? The shock of finding that he had two young rivals had shaken him severely. He thought deeply, and the longer he thought the harder it was to speak. But at last he found a form of words which seemed to him to meet the needs of the occasion, and he spoke, so hollowly that Roger started a little in his chair.

“Do you consider yourself a suitor for the hand of Miss Webster?”

“Eh!”

“Do you want to marry Miss Griselda Webster?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far.”

“Then you ought to leave her alone.”

Roger regarded him with surprise. He was not a sensitive young man, and Hector’s earnest, flushed face held no message for him.

“Listen, Mackintosh, how would it be if you mind your own business?” he said, at last.

Hector could not think of a suitable reply, and silence fell again.

At last Solly returned; his face was white and drawn, except for his swollen nose and a lump on his jaw. When Hector said that it would be well for them to leave he insisted that they stay.

“No, no,” said he; “I’ve given Mother a sedative, and soon she will be in a deep sleep. But if you go downstairs now you may waken her. And I’d like you to stay. I need company.”

“Listen, Bridgetower,” said Roger, “I’m sorry about this. About disturbing your mother, I mean. And I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

“Quite all right,” said Solly.

“You’re not a type I like, if you know what I mean. But as your type goes, you’re not too bad.”

“I understand you,” said Solly. “As a matter of fact, I don’t like your kind, either. Judged by any decent standard you are a pismire, an emmet, but it shouldn’t be impossible for us to get along.”

“Yes, it takes all kinds to make a world, as they say. Shake hands?”

“Certainly.”

Humphrey stirred in his chair, and then started up, wide awake.

“ ‘Deeply have I slept, as one who hath gone down into the springs of his existence, and there bathed.’ “ said he. “Bit of useless knowledge for you, Mackilwraith; a poet you’ve never heard of and wouldn’t like.”

“Beddoes,” said Solly.

“Neatly spotted,” said Humphrey. “Full marks to Master Bridgetower for identifying the quotation. A great man, Beddoes and, like Purcell, still unmauled by the mob. Did I see you fellows shaking hands? Ah, the manly press of flesh! What a wonderful device it is for bringing insoluble quarrels to an apparent end! I take it that you’ve slipped Mum a Mickey Finn? How wise; sedatives to the sedate. Well, well, who’s got the bottle?”

“No more for me,” said Hector.

“Nonsense. You haven’t got any way of providing us with some hot water, have you, Bridgetower?”

“There’s an electric kettle downstairs.”

“Fetch it, like a good fellow, will you? And you might as well bring a lemon and some sugar when you come.”

When Solly had returned with the necessaries Humphrey quickly prepared four strong hot toddies.

“Now,” said he, “while you were otherwise engaged, Mackilwraith drew it to my attention that he and I, as older men, should help you two to straighten out your affairs. This fighting over Griselda Webster won’t do. If you want my frank opinion, the girl isn’t worth it. A pretty little voice, but nothing out of the way. Take my advice: marry a woman with a good big mezzo range, plenty of power, and perfect pitch. Besides, neither of you really cares much about her; you just imagine that you do. ‘Esteem and quiet friendship oft bear love’s semblance for a while.’ Beddoes again, Mackilwraith. Esteem and quiet friendship; that’s what you feel for Griselda. So no rough stuff, with her or with each other. Agreed?”