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She heard the infamous story, which she had repeated to her lawyer; and she had Lemuel Benjulia's visit, and Mr. Morphew's contemplated attack on Vivisection, to thank for getting her information. Mr. Mool waited, and waited in vain. He reminded his client of what she had just said. "You mentioned certain circumstances. May I know what they are?" he asked. Mrs. Gallilee rose, before she replied.
Benjulia's head drooped in thought. The generous protest of the man whom he had injured, spoke in that outstretched hand. He looked at Ovid. "No!" he said and walked away. Leaving the street, he went round to Fairfield Gardens, and rang the bell at Mr. Gallilee's door. The bell was answered by a polite old woman a stranger to him among the servants. "Is Zo in the house?" he inquired.
A low wall surrounded the place, having another iron gate at the entrance. The enclosure within was as barren as the field without: not even an attempt at flower-garden or kitchen-garden was visible. Behind it was the hedge which parted Benjulia's morsel of land from the land of his neighbour. Here, the trees rose again, and the fields beyond were cultivated.
If Ovid had alluded to his Canadian patient in his letters to his mother, his customary preciseness of language might be trusted to relieve Benjulia's suspense. With that purpose in view, the doctor had written to Mrs. Gallilee. Before he laid down his pen, he looked once more at Mr. Morphew's letter, and paused thoughtfully over one line: "I am writing to your brother Lemuel by this mail."
He was not in the least offended; he told me his experiments had spotted his skin in that way, and nothing would clean off the stains. I saw Doctor Benjulia's great big hands, while he was giving you the brandy and I remembered afterwards that there were no stains on them. I seem to surprise you." "You do indeed surprise me.
Not a word escaped him, relating to national character or to the beauties of Nature. Mrs. Gallilee had criticized the Falls of Niagara as a reservoir of wasted power. Doctor Benjulia's scientific superiority over the woman asserted itself with magnificent ease. Niagara being nothing but useless water, he never mentioned Niagara at all. "Have I served your purpose as a guide?" he asked.
The younger brother was only a little over the ordinary height; he was rather fat than thin; he wore a moustache and whiskers; he dressed smartly and his prevailing expression announced that he was thoroughly well satisfied with himself. But he inherited Benjulia's gipsy complexion; and, in form and colour, he had Benjulia's eyes. "How-d'ye-do, Nathan?" he said.
Even at that critical moment, Benjulia's strange jealousy of his young colleague as a possible rival in some field of discovery which he claimed as his own showed itself once more. There was no change in his tone; he still spoke like a judicious friend. "A last word of advice," he said. "You are travelling for your health; don't let inquisitive strangers lead you into talk.
Astonishment immeasurable astonishment sealed Benjulia's lips. He looked down the lane when Ovid left him, completely stupefied. The one imaginable way of accounting for such language as he had heard spoken by a competent member of his own profession! presented the old familiar alternative. "Drunk or mad?" he wondered while he lit his pipe again.
I'll get it." She climbed on a chair, and found the book, and laid it on Benjulia's lap. "I don't so much mind trying to spell a word," she explained. "What I hate is being asked what it means. Miss Minerva won't let me off. She says, Look. I won't let you off. I'm Miss Minerva and you're Zo. Look!"
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