With his examination over even he couldn’t help relaxing, the more so under the influence of good food and my mother’s gaiety. Then, somehow or other, when we were in the drawing room afterwards and Julian had joined us, the conversation grew personal and the atmosphere changed. Julian had met Brad before, and they had seemed to like each other well enough, in spite or perhaps because of their obvious oppositeness. But now I sensed a hostility between them which my father was quietly fanning; it was as if he were holding his own unhappy thoughts at bay by encouraging both my mother and Julian to put Brad on the spot. Soon they were in the thick of a discussion of Brad’s ambitions, what he wanted to do in life, his ideal of science as something to be lived for, and so on. All ideals sound naďve when brought out under cross-examination, but my mother had a special knack of creating naďvete in others—something in the way she used wits rather than brains for an argument, certainly not knowledge, which she didn’t have much of about most things. But she was always fluent, and couldn’t endure to wait while others hesitated or pondered, so she would tell them what she thought they were going to reply, and it was often so deceptively simple that the other person would agree in a bemused way and presently find himself defending some vast proposition more suitable for a school debating society than anything between adults. I think this must have happened to Brad that night, for he got to telling us eventually that scientists were actuated by a desire to “save” humanity, and that science, in due course, would do this in spite of other people whose chief concern was worldly success. (Which was probably a dig at Julian.)

“Meaning,” said Julian, “that scientists don’t go for that sort of thing?”

Brad answered that no true scientist could, or if he did, it proved he wasn’t a true scientist. As neat as that!

“But my dear boy—” (Julian always called people “dear,” which sounded more affected than affectionate till you got used to it, and then you realized it was neither, but just a habit)—“my dear boy, if you ignore all worldly success, how do you suppose you’re going to get a chance to prove anything? You can’t sit in a corner all on your own and just be a scientist—it’s not like writing an epic poem or contemplating your navel—you need money for food, equipment that you couldn’t afford, a room to work in that your house doesn’t have, and a job to make it worth somebody’s while to pay you a regular salary!”

“Well, a job’s all right. There’s nothing worldly in that.”

“But unless it’s a good job you’ll wear yourself out marking papers and teaching teen-agers to blow glass! I know, because I remember my own schooldays.”

“There are good jobs.”

“And how do you suppose they are got? College heads aren’t supermen, they don’t know much about science themselves, and because they can only judge a reputation by the look of it, they’re human enough to favor a man who knows how to draw attention to himself. So if he’s smart, that’s exactly what he does. Politics is one way—though dangerous. Social success is safer. And doing stuff on the side that attracts publicity—you Americans know the kind of thing— pseudoscientific articles in your Sunday supplements that aren’t too phony, just phony enough.” (Julian liked to use American slang, which he said was enriching the English language at a period when otherwise a natural impoverishment would have set in. We had another big argument about that once.)

“So you don’t think real distinction counts, Mr. Spee?”

“I didn’t say that. Of course it counts—but it counts a good deal more if you add salesmanship and what your Hollywood people call glamour.”

“Glamour?”

“Certainly…. An interesting new theory, developed by Professor So-and- So in Vienna … it’s like your sparkling new comedy, straight from its phenomenal success on Broadway … even if it only ran three nights…. Vienna is the Broadway of the scientific show business…. I’d strongly recommend a year or two there for you.”

Brad had the same trouble that I had in deciding whether Julian was serious or not, and I could see him wondering about it now.

My father said quietly: “Might not be a bad idea at that.”

Brad was still puzzling over Julian’s epigram. “Show business, eh?” he echoed, in a rather shocked tone. “I hope it isn’t quite so bad.”

“It’s not bad at all, my dear boy, it’s human. We live in an age of headlines, not of hermits.”

“Someday,” said my mother, in her random way, “the hermits may make the headlines.”

“Vienna’s a good place,” said my father. “A very good place indeed.”

It seemed to me that everyone was talking at cross-purposes. “I can’t believe that the true scientist cares much about headlines,” Brad said.

“No?” Julian gave his rather high-pitched feminine laugh. “I could mention the names of at least a dozen who care about them passionately. And they’re big men, not charlatans, don’t make any mistake. They’ll give you some competition if you go after the plums.”

“But I don’t want the plums. I’m not a bit ambitious for things like that- -I wouldn’t enjoy the kind of thing some people call success. All I ask is the chance to work usefully at something that seems to me worth while.” He added, as if he had listened to his own words: “And if that sounds priggish I can’t help it—it’s the only way I can express what I mean.”

“Oh, no—not priggish at all,” Julian assured him. “Just an honest mistake you’re making about yourself.