“She needs to be jolly. Why doesn’t she go to some seaside place, and live in a hotel, and enjoy herself? Is there anything to prevent her?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“Instead of being dependent on a servant! I believe in enjoying one’s self—when ye’ve got the money to do it with! Can ye imagine anybody living in Bursley, for pleasure? And especially in St. Luke’s Square, right in the thick of it all! Smoke! Dirt! No air! No light! No scenery! No amusements! What does she do it for? She’s in a rut.”
“Yes, she’s in a rut,” Sophia repeated her own phrase, which he had copied.
“My word!” said the doctor. “Wouldn’t I clear out and enjoy myself if I could! Your sister’s a young woman.”
“Of course she is!” Sophia concurred, feeling that she herself was even younger. “Of course she is!”
“And except that she’s nervously organized, and has certain predispositions, there’s nothing the matter with her. This sciatica—I don’t say it would be cured, but it might be, by a complete change and throwing off all these ridiculous worries. Not only does she live in the most depressing conditions, but she suffers tortures for it, and there’s absolutely no need for her to be here at all.”
“Doctor,” said Sophia, solemnly, impressed, “you are quite right. I agree with every word you say.”
“Naturally she’s attached to the place,” he continued, glancing round the room. “I know all about that. After living here all her life! But she’s got to break herself of her attachment. It’s her duty to do so. She ought to show a little energy. I’m deeply attached to my bed in the morning, but I have to leave it.”
“Of course,” said Sophia, in an impatient tone, as though disgusted with every person who could not perceive, or would not subscribe to, these obvious truths that the doctor was uttering. “Of course!”