CHAPTER XVII.
Pillow-propped at her morning studies, the humourist of Pont Street, as she glanced rapidly over the close-printed pages of a trans-Atlantic monthly, had her eye caught by the word "bio-sociological." Whom had she heard using that sonorous term?
It sounded to her with the Oxford accent, and she saw Lashmar.

The reading of a few lines in the context seemed to remind her very strongly of Lashmar's philosophic eloquence.
She looked closer; found that there was question of a French book of some importance, recently published; and smilingly asked herself whether it could be that Lashmar knew this book.

That he was capable of reticence regarding the source of his ideas, she had little doubt; and what would be more amusing than to see "the coming man" convicted of audacious plagiarism?
She wished him no harm; none whatever.

It delighted her to see a man make his way in the stupid world by superiority of wits, and Dyce Lashmar was a favourite of hers; she had by no means yet done with him.

All the same, this chance of entertainment must not be lost.
Having gone down rather earlier than usual, she found Miss Tomalin also studiously engaged, a solid tome open before her.
"My dear May, what waste of time that is! If you would only believe me that all the substance of big books is to be found in little ones! One gets on so much more quickly, and has a much clearer view of things.
Why, no end of poor people nowadays make their living by boiling down these monsters to essence.