“The young——” Sir Thomas caught himself up. “It’s a hard thing to say, perhaps, but I’m afraid he’s a hardened young scamp. Either that or he’s off his head. Upon my soul, I don’t know which is worst.”
The doctor thought rapidly.
Beyond the sweeping alternatives that he had just suggested, Sir Thomas was incapable of seeing. The insidious mergings of the psychical into the physical, the encroaching of the nervous system into the domain of moral control, would for ever remain utterly unapprehended by him. He would not only fail to understand; he would never, even dimly, perceive.
Lucian took his decision. Sir Thomas must be approached upon his own plane of reasonings. But he did not look at Rose as he spoke.
“Better face it, Sir Thomas. The boy has never been wholly normal. We shall have to tell this lawyer so.”
Sir Thomas emitted a sort of bark.
“What d’ye mean?”
“I know what he means,” said Rose, her face rigid. “I don’t suppose we’ve any of us forgotten all the trouble there’s been with Ces, one time and another, because he couldn’t speak the truth.”
Lucian inwardly paid passionate homage to her courage and her directness.
“But that’s nothing to do with his being wrong in the head,” said Sir Thomas, bewildered; “if he is.”