"My dear Mrs. Prothero, nobody wanted him to——"
"He did it, though. He did it because he was not what you all thought him."
"We thought him splendid. My brother was saying only the other day he had never seen such pluck."
"Well, then, it's his pluck—his splendour that he's dying of."
"And you hold us, his friends, responsible for that?"
"I don't hold you responsible for anything."
She was trembling on the edge of tears.
"Come, come," he said gently, "you misunderstand. You've been doing too much. You're overstrained."
She smiled. That was so like them. They were sane when they got hold of one stupid fact and flung it at your head. But you were overstrained when you retaliated. When you had made a sober selection from the facts, such a selection as constituted a truth, and presented it to them, you were more overstrained than ever. They couldn't stand the truth.
"I don't hold you responsible for his perversity," said the poor Doctor.