"Because it interests me immensely. I often think that your only fault is that you don't mind things enough; and so, naturally, I want to find out how great your minding capacity is."
"I see. Your powers of scientific research are indeed remarkable; but did it never strike you that even vivisection might be carried too far—too far for the comfort of the vivisected, I mean; not for the enjoyment of the vivisector?"
"It is awfully good for people to feel things," persisted Elisabeth.
"Is it? Well, I suppose it is good—in fact, necessary—for some poor beggars to have their arms or legs cut off; but you can't expect me to be consumed with envy of the same?"
"Please tell me how much you minded," Elisabeth coaxed.
"I can't tell you; and I wouldn't if I could. If I were a rabbit that had been cut into living pieces to satisfy the scientific yearnings of a learned professor, do you think I would leave behind me—for my executors to publish and make large fortunes thereby—confidential letters and private diaries accurately describing all the tortures I had endured, for the recreation of the reading public in general and the said professor in particular? Not I."
"I should. I should leave a full, true, and particular account of all that I had suffered, and exactly how much it hurt. It would interest the professor most tremendously."
Christopher shook his head. "Oh, dear! no; it wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I should have knocked his brains out long before that for having dared to hurt you at all."