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those stories, which he had begun to realize contained more wisdom than all the dry essays he wrote, and threw them on the fire. That pile of ashes put an end to several months during which he had acted like a madman, and not like the acclaimed biologist he was. From then on, he was content to behave the way society expected and scrupulously avoided spending any more golden afternoons with his professor.
    Nine or ten years had passed since those rapturous nights. During that time, Wells had imagined nothing. At least nothing that wasn’t related to making things work, such as the accursed virus, cronotemia.
    Wells shook his head, ridding himself of those memories, and went over to the table to lend a hand. When they had arranged the tea things, the three of them sat down and began a pleasant conversation about this and that, which Wells followed with a mixture of wistfulness and apprehension, aware that it was only a polite preamble before Dodgson ventured to ask about the thing that really interested him. When at last the conversation appeared to run out of steam, and a hush descended on them, Charles cleared his throat. Wells knew the moment had arrived.
    â€œT-Tell me, George, how is your r-research going?” Charles asked, trying hard to control his stammer. “Y-You don’t give much away in your letters.”
    Wells glanced at Jane, who nodded, encouraging him to come clean with Charles.
    â€œOh, excellently,” Wells replied, with unerring enthusiasm. “I assure you it is progressing in leaps and bounds.”
    Charles looked at him skeptically.
    â€œI-In leaps and bounds, you say? Is that a fact? I know you well, George, and from your tone of voice and posture, not to mention the fleeting look you just gave your dear wife, I would say the exact opposite is true. Look at you bolt upright in your chair, legs crossed, one swinging to and fro like pendulum. I-I’ll wager you still haven’t achieved any satisfactory results.”
    Wells looked slightly shamefaced and shifted in his chair, glancing once more at Jane, who nodded more forcefully this time. Then he turned to Charles, who was still smiling at him, and at last gave a feeble sigh.
    â€œYou’re right,” he confessed with a defeated air. “I’m at the end of my tether. We managed to synthesize the virus, only it doesn’t work. I tried it on the dog”—he pointed to the constant reminder of his failure lying on the rug—“but without success. We’ve been over everything a thousand times but I still can’t see what went wrong.”
    â€œA thousand times? Coincidentally, the same number of pieces a cup always breaks into when dropped on the floor . . . ,” Charles jested, but when he saw that Wells made no attempt to laugh, he adopted a solemn expression, before adding, “Although I do understand, my friend. I sense you are on the verge of giving up.”
    â€œAbsolutely not, Charles! That is unthinkable!” Wells declared, contemplating his wife’s forlorn expression, which merely strengthened his resolve. “I assure you I shall carry on my research until I have discovered my mistake and put it right. The Church has given me the task of saving mankind and I have no intention of letting it down. If I did, I’d never be able to look myself in the face again.”
    â€œY-You’d have great difficulty shaving if that were the case, George. But let’s not be overdramatic. Perhaps you are right,” Charles said reassuringly. Wells raised his eyebrows. “You must retrace your steps one by one, discover your mistake, and put it right.” He gave a mischievous smile. “E-Even if that means going farther back than you thought, right?”
    Wells remained silent.
    â€œIt’s true, Bertie,” Jane said softly. “Perhaps the time has come to accept that . . . Charles’s theory is the correct one.”
    Wells