No little form now went from him and flitted past a gas lamp down a
foggy vista, taking his desire with her. Never more was that to
be. Lewisham's long hours in the laboratory were spent largely in a
dreamy meditation, in--to tell the truth--the invention of foolish
terms of endearment: "Dear Wife," "Dear Little Wife Thing," "Sweetest
Dearest Little Wife," "Dillywings." A pretty employment! And these
are quite a fair specimen of his originality during those wonderful
days. A moment of heart-searching in that particular matter led to
the discovery of hitherto undreamt-of kindred with Swift. For
Lewisham, like Swift and most other people, had hit upon, the Little
Language. Indeed it was a very foolish time.
Such section cutting as he did that third day of his married life--and
he did very little--was a thing to marvel at. Bindon, the botany
professor, under the fresh shock of his performance, protested to a
colleague in the grill room that never had a student been so foolishly
overrated.
And Ethel too had a fine emotional time. She was mistress of a
home--_their_ home together. She shopped and was called "Ma'am" by
respectful, good-looking shopmen; she designed meals and copied out
papers of notes with a rich sense of helpfulness. And ever and again
she would stop writing and sit dreaming.
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