a bit of his science and run off a recipe for making rubber synthetically. Nothing easier to a fellow like Trafford—and instantly the Chelsea house is transported to May fair and life burgeons afresh. Marjorie becomes an impeccable hostess, entertains brilliantly, adds lucky-starred babies Two, Three, and Four to the nursery. All these constructive chapters, once more, have an excellent strong ardour and glow. Life and colour return to them, character is no longer caricature, the quick phrases dart inimitably, delighting ear, eye, and mind with their vivid spoils. There are passages of a sustained sureness that are amongst the best Mr. Wells has ever done: the scenes at Vevey, for instance, are superb. Nor is there any reason on earth, of course, why this réveillé should not have continued, why Trafford, thus serenely established, should not now have returned to his researches with a new confidence and content and become a noble citizen-scientist. Except this awful altruism, the book's benevolent mission, and remembering which—"This marriage must be marred," mutters Mr. Wells desperately, and tries to suppress the dawn once again. More types are hastily produced, more sneers. Blenkins at the Club, "talking grey bosh with infinite thoughtfulness"; Dr. Codgers, of Cambridge, "bubbling away with his iridescent Hegelianism like a salted snail." London is represented as a quag of "ultimately aimless life, a tremendous spawning and proliferation of uneventful humanity." The sight of these things fills Trafford with a profound bitterness and disgust. He decides that his equipment weighs him down instead of helping him. With all the marvellous levers of modern life glinting neatly in front of him, he concludes that modern life is a muddled futility, poisoning him and dragging him down. He cannot research worth a cent.
Whereupon (it really is delicious!) in bursts yet again
