It has now, however, been shown that in spite of his professed zeal for research, Filmer, before he had held this scholarship a year, was tempted, by the possibility of a small increase in his immediate income, to abandon it in order to become one of the nine-pence-an-hour computers employed by a well-known Professor in his vicarious conduct of those extensive researches of his in solar physics--researches which are still a matter of perplexity to astronomers. Afterwards, for the space of seven years, save for the pass lists of the London University, in which he is seen to climb slowly to a double first class B.Sc., in mathematics and chemistry, there is no evidence of how Filmer passed his life. No one knows how or where he lived, though it seems highly probable that he continued to support himself by teaching while he prosecuted the studies necessary for this distinction. And then, oddly enough, one finds him mentioned in the correspondence of Arthur Hicks, the poet. “You remember Filmer,” Hicks writes to his friend Vance; “well, HE hasn't altered a bit, the same hostile mumble and the nasty chin--how CAN a man contrive to be always three days from shaving?--and a sort of furtive air of being engaged in sneaking in front of one; even his coat and that frayed collar of his show no further signs of the passing years. He was writing in the library and I sat down beside him in the name of God's charity, whereupon he deliberately insulted me by covering up his memoranda. It seems he has some brilliant research on hand that he suspects me of all people--with a Bodley Booklet a-printing!--of stealing. He has taken remarkable honours at the University--he went through them with a sort of hasty slobber, as though he feared I might interrupt him before he had told me all--and he spoke of taking his D.Sc. as one might speak of taking a cab. And he asked what I was doing--with a sort of comparative accent, and his arm was spread nervously, positively a protecting arm, over the paper that hid the precious idea--his one hopeful idea. “'Poetry,' he said, 'Poetry. And what do you profess to teach in it, Hicks?' “The thing's a Provincial professorling in the very act of budding, and I thank the Lord devoutly that but for the precious gift of indolence I also might have gone this way to D.Sc. and destruction...”