The doctor let that expression subside into mere seriousness. He took a chair, to say:—"Your ladyship has, perhaps, not heard all particulars of the case."
"Every word."
"You surprise me. Are you aware that this poor old person is under a delusion about her own parentage? She fancies herself the daughter of Isaac Runciman, the father of old Mrs. Marrable, the mother of Widow Thrale."
"She is his daughter."
The doctor nearly sprang out of his chair with surprise, but an insecure foothold made the chair jump instead.
"But it's impossible—it's impossible!" he cried. "How could Mrs. Marrable have a sister alive and not know it?"
"That is what I am going to explain to you, Dr. Nash. And Sir Cropton Fuller will have to wait, as you said."
"But the thing's impossible in itself. Only look at this!..."
"Please consider Sir Cropton Fuller. You won't think it so impossible when you know it has happened." The doctor listened for the symptoms with perceptibly less than his normal appearance of knowing it all beforehand. Gwen proceeded, and told with creditable brevity and clearness, the succession of events the story has given, for its own reasons, by fits and starts.
It could not be accepted as it stood, consistently with male dignity. The superior judicial powers of that estimable sex called for assertion. First, suspension of opinion—no hasty judgments! "A most extraordinary story! A most extraordinary story! But scarcely to be accepted.... You'll excuse my plain speech?..."