“I’m telling you,” said Estridge, “that the girl is influenced not by the will or desire of others, but by their necessities, their distress, their needs.... Or what she believes to be their needs.... And you may decide for yourself how valuable are the conclusions of an impulsive, wilful, fearless, generous girl whose heart regulates her thinking apparatus.”
“According to you, then, she is practically mindless,” remarked Shotwell, ironically. “You medically minded gentlemen are wonders!––all of you.”
“You don’t get me. The girl is clever and intelligent when her accumulated emotions let her brain alone. When they interfere, her logic goes to smash and she does exaggerated things––like trying to sacrifice herself for her friend in the convent there––like tearing off the white garments of her novitiate and denouncing deity!––like embracing an extravagant pantheistic religion of her own manufacture and proclaiming that the Law of Love is the only law!
“I’ve heard the young lady on the subject, Jim. And, medically minded or not, I’m medically on to her.”
They walked on together in silence for nearly a whole block; then Estridge said bluntly:
“She’d be better balanced if she were married and had a few children. Such types usually are.”
Shotwell made no comment. Presently the other spoke again:
“The Law of Love! What rot! That’s sheer hysteria. Follow that law and you become a saint, perhaps, perhaps a devil. Love sacred, love profane––both, when exaggerated, arise from the same physical 78 condition––too much pep for the mind to distribute.
“What happens? Exaggerations. Extravagances. Hallucinations. Mysticisms.
“What results? Nuns. Hermits. Yogis. Exhorters. Fanatics. Cranks. Sometimes. For, from the same chrysalis, Jim, may emerge either a vestal, or one of those tragic characters who, swayed by this same remarkable Law of Love, may give ... and burn on––slowly––from the first lover to the next. And so, into darkness.”