“I don’t see it,” he said hopelessly.

“Listen.  Until father gave up trying himself and realized that he was weak, he was—­was—­sort of hiding the ulcer with a bunch of ribbons.  But the minute he gave up, everything was different.  He didn’t say any more, ‘I’m Andrew Lashcairn, the son of generations of drunkards and madmen.’  He changed it and said, ’I’m God’s man—­I’ve given Him my homage and made Him the Captain of my life.’  And then, don’t you see, he stopped being shut in inside himself any longer.  He began to love me and be gentle to me.  Louis, do you know, I believe you’re tackling this worry in the wrong way.  It can’t be right—­being rude to me, growling all the time about your father and mother—­thinking, thinking, thinking all the time about yourself and your weakness until the whole universe is yourself and your weakness.  Can’t you see how bad it is, you who are a doctor?  You know the old saying about giving a dog a bad name and hanging him.  Louis, you’re giving yourself a bad name, and hanging yourself.”

“Oh, I say, Marcella,” he gasped.  “Do you think—­” he broke off, and groaned again.

“Louis, I know.  I don’t think anything about it!  The other day I was reading a most extraordinary book the schoolmaster lent me.  It was about St. Francis of Assisi.  It said that, by contemplation of the wounds of Christ, in time he came to feeling pain in his hands and feet and side—­”

“Balderdash!” muttered Louis impatiently.  “Auto-suggestion!”

“Auto—­what’s that?” she asked.  He explained and she cried out eagerly: 

“Well, can’t you see you’re doing exactly the same thing?  And you call it balderdash when other people do it!  Those wounds of St. Francis were called the Stigmata—­can’t you see that you’re giving yourself the stigmata of drunkenness?”

“I’ve got them,” he cried hoarsely.  “I’m done.  I’m even a thief.”

“Oh, you idiot!  How sorry I am for my father!  He used to call me an idiot, and have me to put up with.  And now I’ve got you, and you’re a thousand times denser than ever I was!  You’re neither a drunkard nor a thief, Louis.  Look here, to begin with, how much do you owe Fred?  You shall have all I’ve got.  If I give it to you you can’t be a thief any more.”

Between them they had just enough money for Fred and a few shillings left.  He wept as she fastened it in an envelope and asked him to take it along to Fred’s cabin at once.

“I—­I s-say, Marcella.  I—­I—­d-daren’t,” he groaned.  “He’ll ask me to wet it.  And I’ll not be able to say no.  And oh my God, I don’t want to do it any more.”

“Then I’ll take it,” she said promptly, and darted along with it to Number Fifteen, listened while Ole Fred said every insulting thing he could about Louis and all Louis’s ancestors and then calmly asked him for a receipt for the money.

Louis was still sitting on the floor.  He looked up, his bloodshot eyes appealing as he looked at her.