Quixtus blushed in confusion. Sheila climbed down from her perch and ran to Clementina.
“Oh, Auntie, Uncle Ephim has been telling me such lovely stories.”
“Lord save us!”—she turned on him—“What do you know about stories?”
“They were tribal legends of Papua,” he confessed; modestly.
“And what else have you been doing?”
Quixtus made one of his old-world bows.
“I’ve been falling in love.”
“You’re getting on,” said Clementina.
CHAPTER XVIII
Let us take the case of a refined and sensitive man who has fallen, as many have fallen, under the influence of drink. Let us suppose him to have sunk lower and lower into the hell of it until delirium tremens puts a temporary end to his excesses. Let us suppose him to be convalescent, in sweet surroundings, in capable hands, relieved, for the time at least, by the strange gold drug of his craving for alcohol. His mind is clear, his perceptions are acute, he is once more a sane human being. He looks back upon his degradation with wondering horror. It is not as though he has passed through a period of dark madness of which the memory is vague and elusive. He remembers it all—all the incidents, all the besotted acts, all the benumbed, enslaved surrender of his soul. His freed self regards perplexedly the self that was in bondage. They are two different entities—and yet they are unquestionably the same. He has not been mad, because he has felt all the time responsible for his actions, and yet he must have been mad so to dishonour the divine spirit within him. The latter argument prevails. “I have been mad,” he says, and shivers with disgust.