“Why, bless me, child! of what?”
“Nothing serious—merely of my former impression.”
“What was your impression of an impressionist, Frank?” said Adele, laughing. “I don’t believe all of them are quacks, certainly not until I first hear what they have to say.”
Now Miss Winchester, being of the literary craft, indulged in methods not unlike those practiced by the Doctor in connection with his palmistry pranks. They both were much given to observing individuals whose outward appearance suggested a personality from whom they could learn something. Studying types, the Doctor called it; studying human nature, Miss Winchester considered it. All was grist that came to their mill, good, bad, and even the indifferent, cranks and amiables included. It so happened that in the course of her study of human nature Miss Winchester had encountered a pronounced specimen of the genus Professoress, said to occupy the chair of Thought-Cure in a would-be Sanitorium-University. This had been some time ago. What was her surprise now to find said Professoress on board, occupying a deck-chair among the innocents abroad. Not wishing to claim any acquaintance (having already written her up in an article upon “The Inside Cure”) unless forced to do so, she had avoided a meeting. It had been this same individual of whom she had thought when telling Mrs. Cultus of her own cure; and as luck would have it, there the healer appeared,—on deck, in a chair, quite near them when Adele innocently asked for an impression of an impressionist.
Not wishing, however, to disclose this coincidence until she could lead up to it after her own fashion, Miss Winchester kept one eye upon the occupant of the chair, and the other upon Professor Cultus, and yet answered Adele at the same time; all of which goes to show that she herself was somewhat of an expert in impressions, and in leading others up to them; observing others while not herself perceived. When she was ready she replied:
“No, Adele, I do not believe they are all quacks; but I do believe in nerves and hysterics. There is such a thing as self-deception;—the little tin-Solomon within the most of us does sometimes assert himself;—you know the saying, ‘Everybody’s crazy except you and me, and you’re a little off!’ I certainly believe in nerves and hysteria.”
“What has that got to do with it?” asked Mrs. Cultus, curious.
“May I refer to the Professor?” quoth Miss Winchester, blandly.
Professor Cultus thus unwillingly drawn in, gave some points simply as the quickest way to get rid of the talking. “There is a class of disease known as hysteria, nervous, yet involving no recognizable anatomical hurt, wound or injury. The nervous system plays a very important part in the problem, and nerves, you know, affect mentality.”