I can see it without, and I can feel it within. We
also have our spring when the little arterioles dilate,
the lymph flows in a brisker stream, the glands work
harder, winnowing and straining. Every year nature
readjusts the whole machine. I can feel the ferment in
my blood at this very moment, and as the cool sunshine
pours through my window I could dance about in it
like a gnat. So I should, only that Charles Sadler
would rush upstairs to know what was the matter.
Besides, I must remember that I am Professor Gilroy.
An old professor may afford to be natural, but when
fortune has given one of the first chairs in the
university to a man of four-and-thirty he must try and
act the part consistently.

What a fellow Wilson is! If I could only throw the
same enthusiasm into physiology that he does into
psychology, I should become a Claude Bernard at the
least. His whole life and soul and energy work to one
end. He drops to sleep collating his results of the
past day, and he wakes to plan his researches for the
coming one. And yet, outside the narrow circle who
follow his proceedings, he gets so little credit for
it. Physiology is a recognized science. If I add even
a brick to the edifice, every one sees and applauds it.
But Wilson is trying to dig the foundations for a
science of the future. His work is underground and
does not show. Yet he goes on uncomplainingly,
corresponding with a hundred semi-maniacs in the hope