“Don’t you think those effects are exaggerated?”
She lost herself for a moment, as we have already seen she was in the habit of doing, or rather, she did not lose herself, but everything excepting herself, and she spoke as if nobody but herself were present.
“Not in the least exaggerated. What a horror to pass days in dreaming about one particular thing, and to have no power to wake!”
Her head had fallen a little forward; she suddenly straightened herself; the blood rose in her face, and she looked very confused.
“I should like to preach about Dr. Johnson,” said Mr. Cardew.
“Really, Mr. Cardew,” interposed the elder Miss Ponsonby, “Dr. Johnson is scarcely a sacred subject.”
“I beg your pardon; I do not mean preaching on the Sabbath. I should like to lecture about him. It is a curious thing, Miss Ponsonby, that although Johnson was such a devout Christian, yet in his troubles his remedy is generally nothing but that of the Stoics—courage and patience.”
Nobody answered, and an awkward pause followed. Catharine had not recovered from the shock of self-revelation, and the Misses Ponsonby were uneasy, not because the conversation had taken such an unusual turn, but because a pupil had contributed. Mrs. Cardew, distressed at her husband’s embarrassment, ventured to come to the rescue.
“I think Dr Johnson quite right: when I am in pain, and nothing does me any good, I never have anything to say to myself, excepting that I must just be quiet, wait and bear it.”
This very plain piece of pagan common sense made matters worse. Mr. Cardew seemed vexed that his wife had spoken, and there was once more silence for quite half a minute. Miss Adela Ponsonby then rang the bell, and Catharine, in accordance with rule, left the room.