ated again, "to find her grown up to be seventeen years old." To
Ovid's ears, there was an inhuman indifference in his tone as he said
this, which it was impossible not to resent, by looks, if not in words.
Benjulia noticed the impression that he had produced, without in the
least understanding it. "Your nervous system's in a nasty state," he
remarked; "you had better take care of yourself. I'll go and look at the
monkey."

His face was like the face of the impenetrable sphinx; his deep bass
voice droned placidly. Ovid's anger had passed by him like the passing
of the summer air. "Good-bye!" he said; "and take care of those nasty
nerves. I tell you again--they mean mischief."

Not altogether willingly, Ovid made his apologies. "If I have
misunderstood you, I beg your pardon. At the same time, I don't think I
am to blame. Why did you mislead me by using that detestable word?"

"Wasn't it the right word?"

"The right word--when you only wanted to speak of a poor sickly child!
Considering that you took your degree at Oxford--"

"You could expect nothing better from the disadvantages of my
education," said the doctor, finishing the sentence with the grave
composure that distinguished him. "When I said 'misbegotten,' perhaps
I ought to have said 'half-begotten'? Thank you for reminding me. I'll
look at the dictionary when I get home."

Ovid's mind was not set at ease yet. "There's one other thing," he
persisted, "that seems unaccountable." He started, and seized Benjulia
by the arm. "Stop!" he cried, with a sudden outburst of alarm.

"Well?" asked the doctor, stopping directly. "What is it?"

"Nothing," said Ovid, recoiling from a stain on the gravel walk, caused
by the remains of an unlucky beetle, crushed under his friend's heavy
foot. "You trod on the beetle before I could stop you."

Benjulia's astonishment at finding an adult male human being (not in a
lunatic asylum) anxious to spare the life of a beetle, literally struck
him speechless. His medical instincts came to his assistance. "You had
better leave London at once," he suggested. "Get into pure air, and be
out of doors all day long." He turned over the remains of the beetle
with the end of his stick. "The common beetle," he said; "I haven't
damaged a Specimen."

Ovid returned to the subject, which had suffered interruption through
his abortive little act of mercy. "You knew my uncle in Italy. It seems
strange, Benjulia, that I should never have heard of