“Even his mother saw that.”
“It cured him of telling lies?”
Diana looked rather shocked. “Oh, poor little fellow! One would rather forget that he ever did such a thing.”
“The soul never forgets,” said the doctor brusquely.
“These things can be transmuted, or they can be suppressed—but they don’t vanish into nothingness because we all agree that it’s more charitable, or more polite, to forget about them. However, please forgive me. It’s a hobby-horse of mine, and I can’t resist a canter every now and then.”
Diana’s little civil laugh assured him, if he had needed any such assurance, that his energetic diatribe had conveyed to her the minimum of significance possible.
“I mustn’t keep you any longer. But do, if possible, try and get Rose to take the whole question of Cecil less seriously. He’s really quite all right in every possible way, if she’d only believe it, poor dear!”
The doctor shook hands with Mrs. Aviolet. “But I’m afraid,” he observed in valediction, “that I can’t do as you ask. You see, I agree with your sister-in-law. The question of Cecil, to my mind, demands just exactly that.”
“What?”
“To be taken seriously,” said the doctor, his voice very grave.