“Bless the man! don’t talk about mad people,” said Aunt Sophia.
“No, ma’am, I will not. He’s as sane as you are,” said the doctor; “but his nerve is gone, he dare not trust himself outside the house; he cannot, do the slightest calculation—write a letter—give a decisive answer. He would not take the shortest journey, or see any one on business. In fact, though he could do all these things as well as any of us, he doesn’t, and, paradoxical as it may sound, can’t.”
“But why not?” said Scarlett.
“Why not? Because his nerve has gone, he dare not sleep without some one in the next room. He could not bear to be in the dark. He cannot trust himself to do a single thing for fear he should do it wrong, or go anywhere lest some terrible accident should befall him.”
“What a dreadful man!” cried Aunt Sophia.
“Not at all, my dear madam; he’s a splendid fellow.”
“It must be terrible for his poor wife, Doctor Scales.”
“No, ma’am, it is not, because he has no wife; but it is very trying to his sweet sister.”
“I say, hark at that,” said Scarlett, merrily—“‘his sweet sister.’ Ahem, Jack! In confidence, eh?”
“What do you mean?” cried the doctor, as the ladies smiled.