“I do!” exclaimed Rowel. “I contend that numberless instances exist of latent mental derangement, which are totally unknown both to the insane themselves, and to those persons who are about them.”
“Then how do you know it?” asked the lady.
“From the very nature of things, my dear,” Mr. Rowel replied. “Time was when verdicts of felo de se were returned in cases of self-destruction; but now every twopenny shopkeeper is wise enough to know, that the very act of self-murder itself is evidence of mental derangement.”
“But what has this to do with the question?” demanded Mrs. Rowel.
“It has this to do with it,” continued her husband, “that neither you, nor I, nor anybody else, however wise we may think ourselves, can know for a certainty, positively and conclusively, whether we are mad or not.”
“Then do you mean to say that I am mad?”
“I mean to say this, my dear, that for aught you know to the contrary, you may be.”
“Come, that is foolish, Frank. But you do not think so, do you?”
“Think!—I think nothing about it,” replied Rowel; “only, as you seem to believe that such a lunatic as James Woodruff is very much in his senses, it might be supposed you had a bit of a slate loose yourself.”
“Oh, I am sure I have not!” tartly resumed the lady. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying such a thing.”