On the Saturday Sir Joshua came over, he saw Mrs. Pentreath and Mrs. Wichelo, and he shook his head over both of them. He asked them questions about their diet, and about their way of living, while Marlowe stood by, silent and impatient. Then, he said a few kindly, cheerful words, and left them in the big room, which the vicar had had fitted up as a hospital ward; for Marlowe thought the cases were better isolated.
“Well, sir, what do you think?”
“What sort of a man is your vicar? He seems liked.”
“Yes—he is. He’s an odd chap—a bit mad, I think. A very keen Catholic, and very depressed at his failure to keep the people.”
“Ah! they don’t go to church.”
“Well they do now. They have done since this damned illness. He’s been awfully good to them. And the children have always gone.”
“It’s a funny thing, Dr. Marlowe, that no child has been ill.”
“Isn’t it? That’s what I say to young Jones of Truro. He will insist on his shock theory, following on status lymphaticus. I keep on pointing out to him that most of the patients are men who have had shocks every week of their lives since they were twelve. They’d have all been dead long since.”
“Yes. I am sure Jones is wrong. But I don’t know what this disease is, Dr. Marlowe. I suspect, but I don’t know.”
“Here is the vicar coming, Sir Joshua. Shall I introduce you?”