"This," continued Mrs. Verulam, "has been my dream. For this I have worked and striven, toiled and——" she had nearly said "moiled," but at the last minute substituted "prayed," which certainly raised the speech onto a higher plane of oratory. "I ought, therefore, to be thankful," she resumed, the corners of her pretty mouth turning downward, "and I am."
Mr. Rodney looked at her mournfully.
"It is terrible to see the approach of madness," he remarked, gazing upon her eventually with a weird and flickering curiosity.
"I am not going mad," said Mrs. Verulam.
"I beg your pardon," he rejoined—"I beg your pardon. You may not—in fact, you evidently do not know it; but, indeed, you are."
"Really, Mr. Rodney, I think I may be allowed to know my own condition."
"They never do. It is one of the regular symptoms. You will find it in all the medical books."
And once more he observed her with agonised curiosity.
Mrs. Verulam, perhaps not unnaturally, began to grow very angry.