Smith. You don't think she'll keep him awake all night with fairy tales?
Doctor. Certainly not.
Smith. You don't think she'll throw the medicine-bottle out of window and administer—er—a dewdrop, or anything of that sort? Or a four-leaved clover, say?
Doctor. No; of course not.
Smith. I only ask because you scientific men are a little hard on us clergymen. You don't believe in a priesthood; but you'll admit I'm more really a priest than this Conjurer is really a magician. You've been talking a lot about the Bible and the Higher Criticism. But even by the Higher Criticism the Bible is older than the language of the elves—which was, as far as I can make out, invented this afternoon. But Miss Carleon believed in the wizard. Miss Carleon believed in the language of the elves. And you put her in charge of an invalid without a flicker of doubt: because you trust women.
Doctor. [Very seriously.] Yes, I trust women.
Smith. You trust a woman with the practical issues of life and death, through sleepless hours when a shaking hand or an extra grain would kill.
Doctor. Yes.
Smith. But if the woman gets up to go to early service at my church, you call her weak-minded and say that nobody but women can believe in religion.
Doctor. I should never call this woman weak-minded—no, by God, not even if she went to church.