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He had lately attacked, in Corsair fashion, the Greek philosophers and
had disembowelled Plato, Aristotle and the rest of them, to his
complete satisfaction, in a couple of months; at present he was up to
the ears in psychology, and his talk bristled with phrases about the
"function of the real," about reactions, reflexes, adjustments and
stimuli. For all his complexity there was something so childlike in his
nature that he never realized what an infliction he was, nor how
tiresome his conversation could become to people who were not quite so
avid of "disinterested thought." Living alone and spending too much
time in unprofitable studies, his language was apt to be professionally
devoid of humour--a defect he made heroic efforts to remedy by what he
called the "Falernian system." It was the fault of his mother, he said;
she was a painfully conscientious woman. A man's worst enemies are his
parents, he would add.
So far as was known, Mr. Keith had never written a book, a pamphlet, or
even a letter to the newspapers.


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