‘She is—most unwomanly I call it.’
Merton’s idea of the young lady rose many degrees. ‘You said the young lady was “strange from a child, very strange. Fond of the men.” Happily for our sex, and for the world, it is not so very strange or unusual to take pity on us.’
‘She has always been queer.’
‘You do not hint at any cerebral disequilibrium?’ asked Merton.
‘Would you mind saying that again?’ asked Mrs. Nicholson.
‘I meant nothing wrong here?’ Merton said, laying his finger on his brow.
‘No, not so bad as that,’ said Mrs. Nicholson; ‘but just queer. Uncommon. Tells odd stories about—nonsense. She is wearing with her dreams. She reads books on, I don’t know how to call it—Tipsy-cake, Tipsicakical Search. Histories, I call it.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Merton; ‘Psychical Research.’
‘That’s it, and Hyptonism,’ said Mrs. Nicholson, as many ladies do.
‘Ah, Hyptonism, so called from its founder, Hypton, the eminent Anglo-French chemist; he was burned at Rome, one of the latest victims of the Inquisition,’ said Merton.