Dr. Rumsey paused before he replied; he had not expected this question.
"I will answer you frankly," he said, with a pause. "Your wife came to see me about you. She did not wish me to mention the fact of her visit, but I believe I am wise in keeping nothing back from you. You love your wife, don't you?"
"I suppose I do; that is, if I love anybody."
"Of course, you love her. Don't sentimentalize over a fact. She came to see me because her love for you is over-abundant. It makes her anxious; you have given her, Awdrey, a great deal of anxiety lately.
"I cannot imagine how. I have done nothing."
"That is just it. You have done too little. She is naturally terribly anxious. She told me one or two things about your state which I do not consider quite satisfactory. I said it would be necessary for me to have an interview with you, and asked her to beg of you to call at my house. She said you did not consider yourself ill, and might not be willing to come to me. I then resolved to come to you, and here I am."
"It is good of you, Rumsey, but you can do nothing; I am not really ill. It is simply that something—I have not the faintest idea what—has killed my soul. I believe, before heaven, that I have stated the case in a nutshell. You may be, and doubtless are, a great doctor, but you have not come across living men with dead souls before."
"I have not Awdrey; nor is your soul dead. You state an impossibility."
Awdrey started excitedly. His face, which had been deadly pale, now blazed with animation and color.
"Learned as you are," he cried, "you will gain some fresh and valuable experience from me to-night. I am the strangest patient you ever attempted to cure. You have roused me, and it is good to be roused. Perhaps my soul is not dead after all—perhaps it is struggling with a demon which crushes it down."