"But she is going away."
"Then we must wait. If it is, as I suspect, a case of disordered nerves aggravated by improper treatment, the instinct is strongly for concealment. Do you find, for instance, that Mrs. Coombe is not as frank in other matters as she used to be?"
A shamed blush crimsoned the girl's cheek, but the doctor's tone was compelling and she answered in a low voice: "Yes, I think so."
"Don't look like that. It is only a symptom of something rotten in the nervous system."
"Isn't there such a thing as character?" bluntly.
"As distinct from the nervous system? Some say not. But we do not need to venture such a devastating belief to know, well, that a dyspeptic is usually disagreeable. In potential character he may be equal to the cheeriest man who ever ate a hearty dinner. Think of Carlyle."
"I don't like Carlyle."
"But don't you admire him?"
"No. Do you remember the story of the beggar who picked up his hat one day and instead of giving him sixpence, Carlyle said, 'Mon, ye may say ye hae picked up the hat of Thomas Carlyle.'"
The doctor laughed. "Oh he had a guid conceit o' himself—must you go?"
For Esther had risen.