The Essential G. B. Shaw: Celebrated Plays, Novels, Personal Letters, Essays & Articles. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

am glad to hear you make that admission. Science has reduced everything nowadays to vibration. Light, sound, sensation — all the mysteries of nature are either vibrations or interference of vibrations. There,” she said, throwing another pair of pebbles in, and pointing to the two sets of widening rings as they overlapped one another; “the twinkling of a star, and the pulsation in a chord of music, are THAT. But I cannot picture the thing in my own mind. I wonder whether the hundreds of writers of textbooks on physics, who talk so glibly of vibrations, realize them any better than I do.”

      “Not a bit of it. Not one of them. Not half so well,” said Cashel, cheerfully, replying to as much of her speech as he understood.

      “Perhaps the subject does not interest you,” she said, turning to him.

      “On the contrary; I like it of all things,” said he, boldly.

      “I can hardly say so much for my own interest in it. I am told that you are a student, Mr. Cashel Byron. What are your favorite studies? — or rather, since that is generally a hard question to answer, what are your pursuits?”

      Alice listened.

      Cashel looked doggedly at Lydia, and his color slowly deepened. “I am a professor,” he said.

      “A professor of what? I know I should ask of where; but that would only elicit the name of a college, which would convey no real information to me.”

      “I am a professor of science,” said Cashel, in a low voice, looking down at his left fist, which he was balancing in the air before him, and stealthily hitting his bent knee as if it were another person’s face.

      “Physical or moral science?” persisted Lydia.

      “Physical science,” said Cashel. “But there’s more moral science in it than people think.”

      “Yes,” said Lydia, seriously. “Though I have no real knowledge of physics, I can appreciate the truth of that. Perhaps all the science that is not at bottom physical science is only pretentious nescience. I have read much of physics, and have often been tempted to learn something of them — to make the experiments with my own hands — to furnish a laboratory — to wield the scalpel even. For, to master science thoroughly, I believe one must take one’s gloves off. Is that your opinion?”

      Cashel looked hard at her. “You never spoke a truer word,” he said. “But you can become a very respectable amateur by working with the gloves.”

      “I never should. The many who believe they are the wiser for reading accounts of experiments deceive themselves. It is as impossible to learn science from theory as to gain wisdom from proverbs. Ah, it is so easy to follow a line of argument, and so difficult to grasp the facts that underlie it! Our popular lecturers on physics present us with chains of deductions so highly polished that it is a luxury to let them slip from end to end through our fingers. But they leave nothing behind but a vague memory of the sensation they afforded. Excuse me for talking figuratively. I perceive that you affect the opposite — a reaction on your part, I suppose, against tall talk and fine writing. Pray, should I ever carry out my intention of setting to work in earnest at science, will you give me some lessons?”

      “Well,” said Cashel, with a covert grin, “I would rather you came to me than to another professor; but I don’t think it would suit you. I should like to try my hand on your friend there. She’s stronger and straighter than nine out of ten men.”

      “You set a high value on physical qualifications then. So do I.”

      “Only from a practical point of view, mind you,” said Cashel, earnestly. “It isn’t right to be always looking at men and women as you would at horses. If you want to back them in a race or in a fight, that’s one thing; but if you want a friend or a sweetheart, that’s another.”

      “Quite so,” said Lydia, smiling. “You do not wish to commit yourself to any warmer feeling towards Miss Goff than a critical appreciation of her form and condition.”

      “Just that,” said Cashel, satisfied. “YOU understand me, Miss Carew. There are some people that you might talk to all day, and they’d be no wiser at the end of it than they were at the beginning. You’re not one of that sort.”

      “I wonder do we ever succeed really in communicating our thoughts to one another. A thought must take a new shape to fit itself into a strange mind. You, Mr. Professor, must have acquired special experience of the incommunicability of ideas in the course of your lectures and lessons.”

      Cashel looked uneasily at the water, and said in a lower voice, “Of course you may call me just whatever you like; but — if it’s all the same to you — I wish you wouldn’t call me professor.”

      “I have lived so much in countries where professors expect to be addressed by their titles on all occasions, that I may claim to be excused for having offended on that point. Thank you for telling me. But I am to blame for discussing science with you. Lord Worthington told us that you had come down here expressly to escape from it — to recruit yourself after an excess of work.”

      “It doesn’t matter,” said Cashel.

      “I have not done harm enough to be greatly concerned; but I will not offend again. To change the subject, let us look at Miss Goff’s sketch.”

      Miss Carew had hardly uttered this suggestion, when Cashel, in a businesslike manner, and without the slightest air of gallantry, expertly lifted her and placed her on her feet. This unexpected attention gave her a shock, followed by a thrill that was not disagreeable. She turned to him with a faint mantling on her cheeks. He was looking with contracted brows at the sky, as though occupied with some calculation.

      “Thank you,” she said; “but pray do not do that again. It is a little humiliating to be lifted like a child. You are very strong.”

      “There is not much strength needed to lift such a featherweight as you. Seven stone two, I should judge you to be, about. But there’s a great art in doing these things properly. I have often had to carry off a man of fourteen stone, resting him all the time as if he was in bed.”

      “Ah,” said Lydia; “I see you have had some hospital practice. I have often admired the skill with which trained nurses handle their patients.”

      Cashel made no reply, but, with a sinister grin, followed her to where Alice sat.

      “It is very foolish of me, I know,” said Alice, presently; “but I never can draw when any one is looking at me.”

      “You fancy that everybody is thinking about how you’re doing it,” said Cashel, encouragingly. “That’s always the way with amateurs. But the truth is that not a soul except yourself is a bit concerned about it. EX-cuse me,” he added, taking up the drawing, and proceeding to examine it leisurely.

      “Please give me my sketch, Mr. Byron,” she said, her cheeks red with anger. Puzzled, he turned to Lydia for an explanation, while Alice seized the sketch and packed it in her portfolio.

      “It is getting rather warm,” said Lydia. “Shall we return to the castle?”

      “I think we had better,” said Alice, trembling with resentment as she walked away quickly, leaving Lydia alone with Cashel, who presently exclaimed,

      “What in thunder have I done?”

      “You have made an inconsiderate remark with unmistakable sincerity.”

      “I only tried to cheer her up. She must have mistaken what I said.”

      “I think not. Do you believe that young ladies like to be told that there is no occasion for them to be ridiculously self-conscious?”

      “I say that! I’ll take my oath I never said anything of the sort.”

      “You worded it differently. But you assured her that she need not object to have her drawing overlooked, as it is of no importance to any one.”

      “Well, if she takes offence at that she must be a born fool. Some people