“Come, come, doctor,” cried Pacey; “you are too hard. If Armstrong were suffering from a bodily disease, you would stand by him.”
“Of course. But this—”
“Is a mental disease,” cried Pacey, “so why blame your sister for standing by the patient?”
“Bah! Don’t talk like that. I haven’t patience with her. I thought her firm, self-reliant, and proud of her position as a woman.”
“Quite right,” said Pacey, turning and smiling at Cornel. “She’s all that.”
“I join issue,” cried Thorpe. “No: she is neither one nor the other.”
“And I say that she is all three,” cried Pacey, bringing his fist down on the table with a thump, which drew the waiters’ attention. “I beg pardon,” he said hastily. “No, I don’t. I’m not ashamed of my earnestness.”
“Just eight,” said Thorpe, looking at his watch. “I’ve a meeting to attend. You will stop and talk to my sister?”
“Of course.”
Ten minutes later they were alone, and Cornel’s manner changed.