“Now, Mr. Cochrane has promised to give me instruction for half an hour, Thurso,” she said, “and after that I vote we go out. There’s a lake, he says, not far off. We might skate.”
“And what is to happen to me?” he asked. “Am I to have treatment or laudanum, or to be put to sleep again?”
Bertie Cochrane looked up at him suddenly. For half a second he allowed himself to be stung, affronted, by Thurso’s tone. But he recovered immediately.
“Now, honestly, which would you like best?” he asked.
Then, though the moment was, as measured by time, an infinitesimal one, in eternity his soul had thrown itself at the foot of Infinite Love, reminding Him of His promise, like a child, calling Him to help.
The acidity and sneering criticism suddenly died out of Thurso’s mind. His moods altered quickly enough and violently; it may have been that only.
“You know I want to be cured,” he said.
Cochrane made a little sign to Maud, who left the room, leaving the two men alone.
“Yes, I know you do,” he said gently, “and you’re going to be cured. But you can help or hinder. All breakfast, you know, you’ve been hindering. ’Tis such a pity. You’ve been asking questions, which I love to be asked, and love answering too, when I can answer them, not because you wanted to know, but because you wanted to catch me out. Why, of course, you can catch me out, because often and often I am bound by error and claims of mortal mind. Also, I don’t know absolutely everything—I don’t indeed. But when you want to catch me out like that, it means you are adopting a hostile attitude to me and to that which I hope to bring you. That hinders me. It isn’t fair.”
Cochrane shook his head at him, like some nice boy remonstrating kindly with a friend whom he likes for not “playing the game.” Then he went on more seriously.