Then suddenly his craving began to return, sharpening itself instantaneously to hideous acuteness. His mind was like some light vehicle, from which the driver had been spilled, being galloped away with by the bolting, furious horses of habit. Never before had the stroke fallen upon him with such suddenness. “A fine first-fruit of the value of Christian Science,” he said to himself. Yet though its onslaught made him almost dizzy, he retained his presence of mind and the cunning which seemed to have been developed in him since he took to the drug. He mastered his voice completely; he mastered also that watering of the mouth and the automatic swallowing movement of his throat.
“Or shall we read after dinner?” he said. “That sleigh-drive made me so sleepy. I think I should drop asleep at once if you began to read.”
Maud looked at him for a moment with a pity that was instinctive; she could not help it. Then she laughed again.
“Oh, Thurso, how transparent!” she said. “You want to go to your bedroom and forge—yes, forge the prescription which you forged with such brilliant success on the steamer, and send it down to the village to get your horrid bottle. It’s all very well to forge once or twice, but you really mustn’t get in the habit of it; it grows on one dreadfully, I am told.”
He came towards her white and shaking.
“That quack Cochrane has been talking to you, has he,” he said. “He promised not to interfere.”
“He hasn’t interfered. You are perfectly free to do what you like. And he is not proved to be a quack yet.”
He laid his hand on her arm.
“Maud, just this once,” he said—“do let me have it this once. It shall be the last time. You see, the treatment will soon put me right now.”
“Why do you want my leave?” said she.