You figure him on his way to the Normal School of Science at the opening of his third year of study there. (They call the place the Royal College of Science in these latter days.) He carried in his right hand a shiny black bag, well stuffed with text-books, notes, and apparatus for the, forthcoming session; and in his left was a book that the bag had no place for, a book with gilt edges, and its binding very carefully protected by a brown paper cover.

The lapse of time had asserted itself upon his upper lip in an inaggressive but indisputable moustache, in an added inch or so of stature, and in his less conscious carriage.  For he no longer felt that universal attention he believed in at eighteen; it was beginning to dawn on him indeed that quite a number of people were entirely indifferent to the fact of his existence.  But if less conscious, his carriage was decidedly more confident—­as of one with whom the world goes well.

His costume was—­with one exception—­a tempered black,—­mourning put to hard uses and “cutting up rusty.”  The mourning was for his mother, who had died more than a year before the date when this story resumes, and had left him property that capitalized at nearly a hundred pounds, a sum which Lewisham hoarded jealously in the Savings Bank, paying only for such essentials as university fees, and the books and instruments his brilliant career as a student demanded.  For he was having a brilliant career, after all, in spite of the Whortley check, licking up paper certificates indeed like a devouring flame.

(Surveying him, Madam, your eye would inevitably have fallen to his collar—­curiously shiny, a surface like wet gum.  Although it has practically nothing to do with this story, I must, I know, dispose of that before I go on, or you will be inattentive.  London has its mysteries, but this strange gloss on his linen!  “Cheap laundresses always make your things blue,” protests the lady.  “It ought to have been blue-stained, generously frayed, and loose about the button, fretting his neck.  But this gloss ...”  You would have looked nearer, and finally you would have touched—­a charnel-house surface, dank and cool!  You see, Madam, the collar was a patent waterproof one.  One of those you wash over night with a tooth-brush, and hang on the back of your chair to dry, and there you have it next morning rejuvenesced.  It was the only collar he had in the world, it saved threepence a week at least, and that, to a South Kensington “science teacher in training,” living on the guinea a week allowed by a parental but parsimonious government, is a sum to consider.  It had come to Lewisham as a great discovery.  He had seen it first in a shop window full of indiarubber goods, and it lay at the bottom of a glass bowl In which goldfish drifted discontentedly to and fro.  And he told himself that he rather liked that gloss.)

But the wearing of a bright red tie would have been unexpected—­a bright red tie after the fashion of a South-Western railway guard’s!  The rest of him by no means dandiacal, even the vanity of glasses long since abandoned.  You would have reflected....  Where had you seen a crowd—­red ties abundant and in some way significant?  The truth has to be told.  Mr. Lewisham had become a Socialist!