He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far. ‘Then he went stark staring crazy, if you ask me. Never did I need a rescue so much. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest.
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