"I mustn't interfere with your task; I'll look about until you are ready."
Her shining head was already bent over the microscope; her pencil was moving, glad to respond to the touch of that lovely hand.
I picked up a book, the same little volume I had noticed the day before, on "Imbedding, Sectioning and Staining." Near it lay a treatise on histology. I opened to the first chapter, on "Protoplasm and the Cell," but I couldn't fix my thoughts on Bathybius or the Protomoeba. I walked toward an aquarium, flanking which stood a jar half-filled with water in which floated what seemed a big cup-shaped flower of bright brown jelly with waving petals of white and rose colour.
While I looked, thinking only of the curve of Helen's lips and the dancing light in her eyes, and the glowing colour of her soft flesh, Prof. Darmstetter's thin, high-pitched voice grated almost at my ear.
"T'at is Actinia--sea anemone."
"I come from the West; I have never seen the sea forms living," I answered with an effort, fearing that he meant to show me about the laboratory.
"It is fery goot sea anemone; fery strong, fery perfect; a goot organism."
He bent over the jar, rubbing his hands. His parchment face crackled with an almost tender complacency. For a full minute he seemed to gloat over the flower-like animal.
"Very pretty," I said, carelessly.
"Fery pretty, you call it? T'e prettiness is t'e sign of t'e gootness, t'e strengt', t'e perfection. You know t'at?"
To his challenging question, in which I saw the manner of a teacher with his pupils, I replied: "In your estimation goodness and beauty go together?"
"T'ey are t'e same; how not? See t'is way."
He shook his lean, reproving forefinger at a shapeless, melting mass that lay at the bottom of a second jar, exuding an ooze of viscid strings.
"T'at,"--he spat the word out--"is also sea anemone. It is diseased; it is an ugly animal."
"The poor thing's dying," said Helen, coming to his side. "There ought to have been some of the green seaweed, Ulva, in the water. Wouldn't that have saved it?"
"Ugliness,"--Darmstetter disregarded the question--"is disease; it is bat organism; t'e von makes t'e ot'er. T'e ugly plant or animal is diseased, or else it is botched, inferior plant or animal. It is t'e same vit' man and voman; t'ey are animals. T'e ugly man or voman is veak, diseased or inferior. On t'e ot'er hand,"--I felt what was coming by the sudden oiling of his squeak--"t'e goot man or voman, t'e goot human organism, mus' haf beauty. Not so?" Again he rubbed his hands.