“Hysteria,” said James.

“Oh, yes, I know hysteria is a good way to account for our own lack of insight,” said Gordon, “and it may be that girls are queer subjects.  Sometimes I wonder if they know what they know.  Lilian Willoughby does not.”

Gordon, to James’s intense surprise, flared into a burst of anger.  “Yes, she does know,” he declared.  “Down in her inner consciousness I believe she does, poor little overstrung, oversensitive girl, half-fed, as to her body, on coarse food which she cannot assimilate, starved emotionally.  If a girl like that has to exist anyway, why cannot she be born under different circumstances?  That girl as daughter of a New Jersey farmer is an anomaly.  If she mates at all it must be with another New Jersey farmer, then she dies after bringing a few degenerates into the world.  Providence does things like that, and the doctors are supposed to right things.  That girl has had symptoms of about every known disease, and my diagnosis has failed to prove the existence of one of them.  Yet there are the symptoms.  Call it hysteria, or what you will.  I call it an injustice on the part of the Higher Power.  I suppose that is blasphemy, but I am forced to it.  Can that girl help the longings for her rights, her longings which are abnormally acute because of her over-fine nervous system?  Those longings, situated as she is, can never be satisfied in any way except for her own harm.  Meantime she eats her own heart, since she has nothing else, and heart-eating produces all kinds of symptoms.  I am absolutely powerless in such a case, though sometimes I make a diagnosis which I think may be correct, sometimes I think there is some organic trouble which I can mitigate.  But always I fall back upon the miserable truth which I am convinced underlies her whole existence.  She is a creature born into a life which does not and never will afford her the proper food for her physical and spiritual needs.  Oh, the horror in this world, and what am I to set myself to right it?  Shut the door.”

“The horses are uneasy,” James said.

“Never mind, shut the door.  Clemency is away, and Emma out in the kitchen.  I must speak to somebody, or I shall go mad.”

James shut the door and turned to Gordon, who sat rigid in his chair, his hands clutching the arms.  “Do you think I did right?” he groaned.  “You know what I did.  Was it right?”

“If you mean about your wife,” James said, “I think you did entirely right.”

“But you could not,” Gordon returned bitterly.  “It was too much for you to attempt, and yet she was nothing to you as she was to me, and the sin would not have been so terrible.”

“I had not the courage,” James replied simply.

“You did not think it right.  You did not wish to burden your soul with such a responsibility.  I was wrong to try to shift it upon you, wrong and cowardly, but she was bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh; it was a double crime for me, murder and suicide.  It was not because you had not the courage:  you have faced surgical operations and dissecting.  You dared not commit what you were not sure was not a crime.  There is no use in your hedging, Elliot.  I know the truth.”