Well that's where I always felt Foe could help. And yet he didn't help very much. He read a heap of poetry--on the sly, as it were; and one night I coaxed him off to a talk about Browning. His language on the way home was three-parts blasphemy. Am I making him at all clear to you? He kept his intellect in a cage all to itself, so to speak. . . . What's more--and you'll see the point of this by and by--he liked to keep his few friends in separate cages. I won't say he was jealous: but if he liked A and B, it was odds he'd be uneasy at A's liking B, or at any rate getting to like him intimately. This secretiveness had its value, to be sure. It gave you a sense of being _privileged_ by his friendship. . . . Or, no; that's too priggish for my meaning. Foe wasn't a bit of a prig. It was only because he had, on his record already, so much brains that the ordinary man who met him in my rooms was disposed to wonder how he could be so good a fellow. Get into your minds, please, that he _was_ a good fellow, and that no one doubted it; of the sort that listens and doesn't speak out of his turn. He had a great capacity for silence; and it's queer to me--since I've thought over it--what a large share of our friendship consisted in just sitting up into the small hours and smoking, and saying next to nothing. _I_ talked, no doubt: Foe didn't. I shall go on calling him Foe. He was Jack to me, always; but Foe suits better with the story; and besides . . . well, I suppose there's always something in friendship that one chooses to keep in a cage. . . . The only cage-mate that Jack--I mean Foe--ever allowed me was Jimmy Caldecott, and that happened after we had both moved to London. He--Foe--had taken a first-class in the Tripos, of course; and a fellowship on top of that. But he did not stay up at Cambridge. He put in the next few years at different London hospitals, published some papers on the nervous system of animals, got appointed Professor of Animal Morphology, in the South London University College (the Silversmiths' College), and might wake up any morning to find himself a Fellow of the Royal Society. He was already--I am talking of 1907, when the tale starts--a Corresponding Member of three or four learned Societies in Europe and the U.S.A., and had put a couple of honorary doctorates to his account besides his Cambridge DSc.