"For a superficial observer you have made a remarkable diagnosis of the case, George," said the Doctor, regarding his son with calm appreciation; "it is a thousand pities you did not take to the profession."
"Thank God, I didn't," said the son; "even as it is I have seen enough of it--or, at least, I should have said 'Thank God' two months ago; now, I almost wish I had."
"You would like to have taken up this case?"
"I should."
"You would like to have cured your friend's cousin?"
"I should indeed."
"My dear George," said the Doctor, with a smile, "I think, as I just said, it is a great pity that you did not take up the profession. You have a certain talent, and great powers of reading the human mind, but you are given to desultory studies and pursuits; and your picture-painting, piano-playing, and German philosophy, all charming as they are, would have led you away from the one study on which a man in our profession must concentrate his every thought. I don't think, my dear George, that you would have been a better--well, what common people call a better 'mad doctor' than your father; I don't think the 'old man' would have been beaten by the 'boy' in this instance."
"I am sure not, sir; I never thought that for an instant: it was not that which prompted me to say what I did. Do I understand from your last remark that Miss Derinzy's disease is beyond your cure?"
"In my opinion, beyond any one's cure, my dear George."
"God help me!" And George groaned and covered his face with his hands.