“A veritable fiend for blood,” Boyle went on, ignoring me totally. “Constantly fiddling with buckets of it. But a good man with a knife, it seems, and a fine draftsman. Hmm.”

I resented Sylvius for his statements. To call my experimentation fiddling made me hot with indignation. I had begun methodically and proceeded in what I thought was a rational manner. It was, after all, hardly my fault that my father’s summons made me leave Leiden before I had come to any conclusions of substance.

Since it is of some moment to my story, I should make it clear that my interest in blood was no newfound fancy, but by this stage had preoccupied me for some time. I can scarcely recall when the fascination began. I remember once listening to some tedious Galenist lecturing on blood in Padua and the very next day being lent a copy of Harvey’s magnificent work on circulation. It was so clear, so simple, and so obviously true that it took my breath away. I have not had an experience like it since. However, even I could see that it was incomplete—Harvey demonstrated that the blood starts in the heart, circulates around the body, then returns whence it came. He did not establish why it does this, and without that science is a poor thing indeed; nor did he proffer any therapeutic gain from his observations. Perhaps impertinently, but certainly with reverence, I had dedicated many months in Padua and nearly all my time in Leiden to exploring this subject and I would have already achieved some notable experiments had I not obeyed my father’s desires and come to England.

“Good,” Boyle said eventually, folding the letter carefully and putting it in his pocket. “You are welcome, sir, more than welcome. Above all to Mr. Lower, I imagine, as his insatiable lust for entrails seems to be matched only by your own.”

Lower grinned at me and offered the saucer of coffee which had been growing cold as Boyle read. It seemed that I had been put to the test and found adequate. The relief I felt was almost overwhelming.

“I must say,” Boyle went on pouring quantities of sugar in his coffee, “that I am all the more pleased to welcome you because of your behavior.”

“My what?” I asked.

“Your offer of assistance to the Blundy girl—remember her, Lower?—was charitable and Christian,” he said. “If a little unwise.”

I was astounded by this comment, so convinced had I been that no one had paid me the slightest attention. I had entirely misjudged the degree to which the slightest breath of anything can exert fascination in such a little town.

“But who is this girl whom you both know?” I asked. “She seemed a very poor creature and hardly the type who would ordinarily come to your attention. Or have years of republicanism leveled ranks to such an extent?”

Lower laughed. “Fortunately not. People like the Blundy girl are not normally members of our society, I’m pleased to say. She’s pretty enough, but I would be reluctant to be known to consort with her. We know her as she has a certain notoriety—her father Ned was a great subversive and radical, while she supposedly has some knowledge of natural remedies. Boyle here consulted her over some herbal simples. It is a pet project of his, to provide the poor with medicines fitting their rank.”

“Why supposedly?”

“Many have attested to her skill in curing, so Boyle thought he would do her the honor of incorporating some of her better recipes into his work. But she refused to help, and pretended she had no ability at all. I imagine she wanted payment, which Boyle properly refused to countenance for a work of benevolence.”

At least that explained the girl’s comment which I had dismissed as a lie. “Why is it unwise to associate with her, though?”

“Her society will do you little credit,” Boyle said. “She has a reputation for lewdness. But I particularly meant that she will not prove a lucrative client.”

“I have discovered that already,” I replied, and told him of the way she had spent my money.

Boyle looked mildly shocked by the tale. “Not the way to grow rich,” he observed dryly.

“What is the supply of physicians here? Do you think I could gain some clients?”

Lower grimaced and explained that the trouble with Oxford was that there were far too many doctors already. Which was why, when he had finished a project he was undertaking, and Christ Church ejected him from his place, he would be forced to go to London. “There are at least six,” he said.

“And any number of quacks, surgeons and apothecaries. All for a town of ten thousand inhabitants. And you would be at some risk if you did not obtain a university license to practice. Did you qualify at Padua?”

I told him that I had not, having no plans to practice even had my father not considered it demeaning to take a degree. Only necessity made me think of earning money by medicine now. I suppose I phrased it wrongly, for while Boyle understood my predicament, Lower took my innocent remark to indicate a disdain for his own calling.

“I’m sure sinking so low will not taint you permanently,” he said stiffly.

“On the contrary,” I said swiftly, to repair the accidental slight. “The opportunity is more than welcome, and quite makes up for the unfortunate circumstances in which I find myself. And if I have the opportunity to associate myself with gentlemen such as yourself and Mr. Boyle, I will be more than fortunate.”

He was soothed by this remark, and gradually resumed his earlier nonchalance; nonetheless, I had seen briefly beneath the surface, and had a glimpse of a nature which, for all its easygoing charm, was both proud and prickly. The signs vanished as quickly as they had appeared, however, and I over-congratulated myself on my success in winning him over.

To explain myself clearly, I briefly laid out my current position, and a precise question from Boyle induced me to say that I would soon be totally out of funds. Hence my desire to minister to the sick. He grimaced and asked why, precisely, I was in England in the first place?

I told him that filial obligation demanded that I try to reestablish my father’s position in law. And for that I suspected I would need a lawyer.

“And for that you need money, for which you need an income. Absque argento omnia rara,” Lower said. “Hmm. Mr. Boyle? Do you have any ideas, sir?”

“For the time being, I would be happy to offer you some occupation in my elaboratory,” said this kind gentleman. “I feel almost ashamed to offer, as it is far below what a man of your position should do. I’m sure Lower here could find you somewhere to stay at his old lodgings and perhaps, the next time he does a circuit in the countryside, he could take you along. What do you think, Lower? You always say you’re overworked.”

Lower nodded, although I detected no great enthusiasm on his part. “I should be delighted with both the help and the company. I was planning a tour in a week or so, and if Mr. Cola wished to come…”

Boyle nodded as though all was decided. “Excellent. Then we can tackle your London problem. I will write to a lawyer I know and see what he can recommend.”

I thanked him enthusiastically for his great kindness and generosity. It obviously pleased him, although he affected that it was a mere nothing. My gratitude was entirely genuine; from being poor, friendless and miserable, I had acquired the patronage of one of the most distinguished philosophers of Europe. It even crossed my mind that part of this was due to Sarah Blundy, whose appearance that morning,.and my reaction, had swung Boyle into thinking more favorably of me than could otherwise have been the case.