“Charming? I shouldn’t say that. I think he’s not a bad sort of fellow really, but you know how exasperating I find the Cambridge bleat. Ah’d much raver lis’n to a muckin’ Cawkn’y, swop me bob, I would.” “But you know he’s a very important young scientist, and supposed to be doing marvelous research work.” “Do you know what it is?” “No. Fanny couldn’t tell me. She said you had to be a specialist yourself to understand what he’s doing.” “Well, I must say I’m a bit suspicious of these mysterious ‘specialists,’ who can’t even tell you plainly what they’re doing. I think Boileau’s right—what’s accurately conceived can be clearly expressed. When Science begins to talk the language of mystic Theology and superstition, I begin to suspect it vehemently. Besides, only the feeble sections of any aristocracy take on vapourish airs and affected ways of talk. Well-bred people haven’t any affectations. And men with really fine minds haven’t any intellectual vanity.” “Oh, but Reggie isn’t vain. He didn’t even mention his work to me. And he told such a_mus_ing stories.” “That’s just another form of insolence—they assume you’re too ignorant and stupid to understand their great and important labours, so they never condescend even to mention them, but tell ‘a_mus_ing stories,’ as I see you’ve already learned to call Common-Room gossip.” Elizabeth was silent, ominously silent. She was more used to the Cambridge manner than George was, and thought he fussed too much about it. Besides, she had been really attracted by Reggie. She thought George was making a jealous scene. There she did him a wrong; it never occurred to George that Elizabeth might fall in love with Reggie. (Oddly enough, it never _does_ occur to a husband or a lover _in esse_ to suspect his probable coadjutor—until it is too late. He suspects plenty of wrong people, but rarely the right one. The Cyprian undoubtedly has artful ways.) As a matter of fact, George had not the slightest feeling of jealousy. He was merely saying what he felt, as he would have done about any other chance acquaintance. He respected Elizabeth’s silence. It was one of their numerous pacts—to respect each other’s silence. So they walked mutely down Whitehall, while George thought vaguely about Fanny and his next day’s work and cocked his head up to try to see the moon and watched the occasional busses bounding along like rapid barges in the empty light-filled river of Belgian blocks; and Elizabeth brooded over the supposed revelation of a hitherto unsuspected tendency to silly jealousy in George. But just as they approached the Abbey, George slipped his arm through hers so naturally, affectionately and unsuspiciously that Elizabeth’s ill-humour vanished, and in two minutes they were chattering as volubly as ever.