usually devoted to the precise and exact formulæ of science. Perhaps had I then known that he had taken a high South Kensington certificate for practical analysis I might have framed the offer a little differently, but, after all, these science and art diplomas are recognised even among beginners as the brand of mediocre amateurism. I never thought it worth while competing for one myself, nor do I imagine that that eminent scientist and neighbour of mine, Sir Walter Bent, ever sought the questionable distinction; certainly I never heard him mention the fact ostentatiously if he had, in the way Bobbie has done more than once.
"What's the good of making oxygen out of mercuric oxide?" replied Bobbie, when, I suppose, he had looked at me as long as he wanted. "Why, it's one of the very first experiments, uncle. Don't you always feel that you want to find out things that have never been done before? I know that I do."
This, as one may imagine, amused me considerably.
"Why, my lad," I replied tolerantly, "what is there to find out? Nothing—practically nothing; certainly nothing that you will ever do. Of course, from time to time there will occasionally be some obscure discovery, but rest assured that on broad lines the limit of knowledge is almost reached."
I ought to be able to speak definitely on this point, because, as a matter of fact, until I recognised the futility of it, I had wasted some valuable time in speculative experimenting myself.
As far as his manner in general went, this nephew of mine was studiously respectful after he had once understood that I would have no childish affectation, but on this one subject I charitably assume that he is not entirely responsible for the nonsense that he talks.
"Nothing to be found out!" he cried vehemently.
