Already a strange exhilaration was spreading over David’s mind.  Life was not twice but ten times more interesting than it had appeared to the prejudiced eyes of Vivien Warren.  It was as though she—­he—­had passed through some magic door, gone through the looking-glass and was contemplating the same world as the one Vivie had known for—­shall we say fifteen?—­years, but a world which viewed from a different standpoint was quite changed in proportions, in colour, in the conjunction of events.  It was a world in which everything was made smooth and easy before the semblance of manhood.  What a joy to be rid of skirts and petticoats!  To be able to run after and leap on to an omnibus, to wear the same hat day after day just stuck on top of her curly head.  Not, perhaps, to change her clothes, between her uprising and her retirement to bed, unless she were going out to dine.  No simpering.  No need to ask favours.  No compliments.  It is true she felt awkward in the presence of women, not quite the same, even with Honoria.  But with men.  What a difference!  She felt she had never really known men before.  At first the frank speech, the expletives, the smoking-room stories made her a little uncomfortable and occasionally called forth an irrepressible blush.  But this was not to her disadvantage.  It made her seem younger, and created a good impression on her tutors and acquaintances.  “A nice modest boy, fresh from the country—­pity to lead him astray—­won’t preserve his innocence long—­” was the vaguely defined impression, contact with her—­him, I mean—­made on most decent male minds.  Many a lad comes up from the country to commence his career in London who knew far less than the unfortunate Vivie had been compelled to know of the shady side of life; who is compelled to lead a somewhat retired life by straitness of means; whose determination towards probity and regularity of life is respected by the men of law among whom he finds himself.

But David having decided—­he did not quite know why—­to pursue his acquaintance with Professor Rossiter; having written to ask if he might do so (as a matter of fact he frequently saw Rossiter walking across the gardens of New Square to go to the museum of the Royal College of Surgeons:  he recollected him immediately but Rossiter did not reciprocate, being absent-minded); and having received a card from “Linda Rossiter” to say they would be at home throughout the winter on Thursdays, between 4 and 6:  went on one of those Thursdays and made definite progress with the great friendship of his life.

CHAPTER VI

THE ROSSITERS

The Rossiters’ house in Park Crescent was at the northern end of Portland Place, and its high-walled garden—­the stables that were afterwards to become a garage—­and Michael Rossiter’s long, glass-roofed studio-laboratory—­abutted on one of those quiet, deadly-respectable streets at the back that are called after Devon or Dorset place names.