In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. They walked side by side for a time. I said I hadn’t been at the Royal Society soiree for four years, and got him to tell me about some of the fresh Mendelian work. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. “I think that it is only an idea. We have a very nice set of young people here too just at present, and you would soon make some friends.
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