“It is true. I do not see it. I see the stone on which it was sitting.”
“You are still in my eyes. Now”—she touched his head again—“now, you are no longer an image. You are my mind.”
“Yes. I am your mind.”
“You, my Mind, know that I met to-day a man called the Wanderer, whose body you saw when you were in my eyes. Do you know that or not?”
“I know it. I am your mind.”
“You know, Mind, that the man was mad. He had suffered for many years from a delusion. In pursuit of the fixed idea he had wandered far through the world. Do you know whither his travels had led him?”
“I do not know. That is not in your mind. You did not know it when I became your mind.”
“Good. Tell me, Mind, what was this man’s delusion?”
“He fancied that he loved a woman whom he could not find.”
“The man must be cured. You must know that he was mad and is now sane. You, my Mind, must see that it was really a delusion. You see it now.”