She put her little head on the side and returned his glance. She didn’t smile as usual.
“It’s a psychosis. The fever is not physical; it’s a condition of the mind. I think she needs analysing.”
His Scotch wrath broke over her head.
“Stop that!—I won’t have it with her; this analysing has done too much mischief, dragging the wild beasts out of their caverns, showing the poor victims the horrors that are within them. I tell you, the people are playing with psycho-analysis like children with dynamite; they don’t understand it, nor do we, yet. Let that woman alone, do you hear!—unless you want to rob her of the little reason she has left. She’s the victim of heredity; we can’t change that, can we? She’s the victim of a certain physical tendency, inborn; we can’t change that; she’s the victim of the errors of her ancestors; we can’t change that.”
“No, Doctor, but we all are, if we knew it.”
“It’s a good thing we don’t. Now I hope this woman’s love for her child and her husband will counteract other influences; mind you, she’s a good, innocent woman; but she is obsessed by an evil spirit which must be exorcised.” There he was, the old Scotch Calvinist.
Julie was quiet until evening.
“Where is Floyd?”
“Do you want to see him?”