"'What is truth?' said doubting Pilate. Can it be that you have found out? You interest me."
Sophy hesitated. How was she to take him? Was he trying to make her put it into brutally plain words? Would he prefer that? Or was he only waiting to launch abuse at her in case she did? As she sat anxiously pondering, one of those sudden changes of mood took place in Chesney, that startle even the slaves of morphia themselves. In a flash—in the twinkling of an eye, he seemed to see a new course open before him—a course that would save him from the powers of darkness as represented in his distorted mind by the medical profession. Holding out his hand, he said in quite a different voice, a very gentle one indeed:
"Come here, Sophy."
A wondering look stole over her face. She went to him almost timidly, seated herself on the edge of the bed, and put her hand in his.
"See here, my child," said he, still in that kind, moderate voice. "Whatever else you have in mind, don't forget that I'm a rather ill man."
"I don't ... I don't ... not for a moment."
"And you must bear with me if I say things a bit lamely."
"Say anything...." she began eagerly, then restrained herself. "Say anything," she repeated more soberly.
"Very well, then. But please don't exclaim or get emotional, will you? My head's beastly tired. I've had rather a tight squeak of it, Gaynor tells me."
"Yes—you were very, very ill."