savouring of
idealism--that is to say, of idealism as Egremont had presented it. He
had heard but one of Walter's lectures, yet that was enough to realise
for him the kind of thing which henceforth he disliked and distrusted.
Egremont, it seemed to him, had sought to make working men priggish and
effeminate, whereas what they wanted was back-bone and consciousness of
the bard facts of life. Ackroyd had never cared much for literature
proper; his intellectual progress was henceforth to be in the direction
of hostility to literature. When his various love difficulties ceased
to absorb all his attention, he went back to his scientific books, and
found that his appetite for such studies was keener than ever. At
length he converted his bedroom into a laboratory, resolved to pursue
certain investigations seriously. When his heart--or diaphragm, or
whatever else it may be--left him at peace, his brain could work to
sufficient purpose. And of late he had worked most vigorously. He
ceased to trouble himself about politics, and religion, and social
matters. His views thereon, he declared, had undergone no change
whatever, but he had no time to talk at present.

But a question of Jack's waited for an answer.

'That's only my sister's fun,' Luke replied, with a smile. 'There's no
reason why I shouldn't like her.'

'I think she don't look bad,' Jack remarked, as if allowing himself to
stray from chemistry to a matter of trivial interest. He added: 'But
she don't come up to Miss Nancarrow. I like _her_; she's the right kind
of girl, don't you think so?'

'First-rate.'

'I say, Mr. Ackroyd, why don't you never come now and call for her,
like you used to?'

'Used to? When?'

'Why, you know well enough. Not long ago,'

'Oh, years ago!'

'No, not more than a year ago.'

'Yes, Jack; a year and a half.'

'Well it didn't seem so long. I say, why don't you? I've only just
thought of it.'

'There's no need to call. I see her sometimes, and that's enough for
friends, isn't it?'

'I believe you was going to marry Miss Nancarrow, wasn't you?'

'Hollo! Who told you such a thing as that?'

'Nobody. I thought of it myself. It looks like it, when I think. I'm
older now, you see, than I was then; I see more into things.'

Ackroyd laughed heartily.

'It seems you do.'

'Well but, tell me, Mr. Ackroyd.'

'No, I shan't. When you get a bit older still, you'll know that men
have no business to talk about such things. Understand