‘My cousin went back to school, set up a skeleton, and began smelling evil smells out of bottles, like a good little boy of sixteen. In another year and a half he hopes to get some unpaid work in the East End of London. The worse,’ added Gaston, with the hearty appreciation of Geoffrey, which was the finest thing in his own character--‘the worse for all the wretched men and women in Cambridge whose lives are bettered by my cousin Geff’s labours among them.’ ‘Re--ally? Dear, dear, it is all too noble! A veritable life-poem in prose! My husband is a man of science, too. Only in his days, you know, doctors believed in their own horrible medicines. Doctor Thorne will be charmed to make Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot’s acquaintance. You are not working quite _too dreadfully_ hard here in Guernsey, I hope?’ Geoffrey detested italics, even though he might tolerate a woman who habitually employed them. Judge how he was affected by the italicised enthusiasm, applied to himself, of Linda Thorne! ‘My work in Guernsey will take the shape of pupils, if I am lucky enough to get any. My terms are five shillings an hour, madam. My tuition comprises Greek, Latin, arithmetic, a moderate quantity of algebra, and, if required,’ said Geff, without the ghost of a smile, ‘the use of the globes. Perhaps you could recommend me?’ ‘Oh, to be sure; I quite understand.’ Linda’s highly-wrought tones went through a diminuendo of interest, well bred but rapid, at this announcement of poverty. ‘Classics; the use of the globes; algebra; pupils.’ ‘Of whom we hope we have caught one,’ cried Gaston, watching her face, gauging the extent of her sympathy for life-poems in prose. ‘You think, do you not, Geff, that you have secured Miss Marjorie Bartrand of Tintajeux?’ ‘I have already offered myself in writing, and shall walk out to Tintajeux, on approval, this evening. If Miss Bartrand thinks me capable of teaching her arithmetic, also the rudiments of Greek and Latin, at five shillings an hour, the bargain will be struck.’ ‘Capable!’ The exclamation came from Dinah, who until now had maintained a staid but not ungracious silence while the others talked. A certain light in Dinah’s eyes betrayed the profound conviction of Geoffrey’s intellect which was felt by her. Mrs. Thorne looked, without showing she looked, at the three Arbuthnots in turn. ‘You think Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot more than capable of guiding the whole combined feminine intellect of our poor little Guernsey. Do you not, Mrs. Arbuthnot?’ Linda asked this with the North Pole voice that puts the social position of a feminine questioner at so vast a distance from the social position of her questioned. ‘I know nothing about intellect, except what I hear from Geoffrey and my husband. I am quite uneducated myself.’ Dinah’s reply was accompanied by a large level glance from those fearless, truthful Devonshire eyes of hers. And Mrs. Thorne’s eyes fell.