He came in without knocking, which suggested either pathological overconfidence or nihilistic indifference to social convention. I suspected the latter. His nihilism was evident in his work and attitude. He was only concerned with pleasure, not effort. My assessment was underscored by his attire: crumpled rowing kit. Pip had been right. Elliot had been wasting his time at the river.

‘You wanted to see me,’ he said, and Michael and I cut short our conversation about him.

‘Have a seat,’ I replied, and he chose my favourite armchair, an old Laura Ashley floral pattern I’d inherited from Mother.

Michael and I were at opposite ends of a leather couch, separated from our student by a coffee table that was covered with my papers and notebooks.

No one said anything, and for a moment all I could hear were the voices rising from the front quad, drifting through the open sash windows.

‘Professor Gardner and I are concerned,’ I began. ‘We’re worried about the effort you’re putting into your work.’

Elliot gave me a look I cannot easily describe. It wasn’t contempt, nor was it pity. It might have been disinterest but there was too much emotion for it to have been that.

I dream of a world of robots where circuits are dismantled and motherboards analysed so we’re all absolutely clear who feels what at any given time. I can describe the orbit of a thousand suns in mathematically perfect formulae, but I still to this day don’t know how that young man felt. I doubt he had much respect for us though.

He picked up my Mont Blanc StarWalker fountain pen – a most indulgent gift to myself – and a notebook, and flicked through it absently as I went on.

‘You have a brilliant mind, Elliot, but you’re just not present.’

As if to prove my point, he started doodling.

‘Why did you come here? Why pick physics?’ Michael chimed in. ‘Was it your parents?’

Elliot didn’t reply, but the pen froze for a moment, and he concentrated on his doodle intently. He might have been furious. I don’t know. Everything about him was so contained.

We knew about his parents, of course. Few in our world didn’t. They were accomplished scientists and their deaths had been grave tragedies. It was hard to imagine what the loss might do to a child, but perfectly reasonable to believe he might have come here in an attempt to live up to what he imagined their expectations of him might be.

‘Are you bored?’ I asked. ‘Is there something that might rekindle your love of the subject?’

‘I’m not bored,’ Elliot replied without even glancing up from the notepad. ‘Have you ever wondered why we do it? A dog looks up at the stars and sees beauty or spots or perhaps nothing at all. We look up and we have to dissect and pull apart and explain. Why can’t we just accept things as they are?’

These were the jaded words of a much more experienced scientist. He was too young for this. I’d heard similar from the mouths of grey-haired physicists near the end of their careers.