“I wish some of my damned Committee would!”

The doctor turned his eyes to the window.  “I lie awake too,” he said and seemed to reflect.  But he was observing his patient acutely—­with his ears.

“But you see how important it is,” said Sir Richmond, and left his sentence unfinished.

“I’ll do what I can for you,” said the doctor, and considered swiftly what line of talk he had best follow.

Section 2

“This sense of a coming smash is epidemic,” said the doctor.  “It’s at the back of all sorts of mental trouble.  It is a new state of mind.  Before the war it was abnormal—­a phase of neurasthenia.  Now it is almost the normal state with whole classes of intelligent people.  Intelligent, I say.  The others always have been casual and adventurous and always will be.  A loss of confidence in the general background of life.  So that we seem to float over abysses.”

“We do,” said Sir Richmond.

“And we have nothing but the old habits and ideas acquired in the days of our assurance.  There is a discord, a jarring.”

The doctor pursued his train of thought.  “A new, raw and dreadful sense of responsibility for the universe.  Accompanied by a realization that the job is overwhelmingly too big for us.”

“We’ve got to stand up to the job,” said Sir Richmond.  “Anyhow, what else is there to do?  We may keep things together....  I’ve got to do my bit.  And if only I could hold myself at it, I could beat those fellows.  But that’s where the devil of it comes in.  Never have I been so desirous to work well in my life.  And never have I been so slack and weak-willed and inaccurate....  Sloppy....  Indolent....  Vicious!...”

The doctor was about to speak, but Sir Richmond interrupted him.  “What’s got hold of me?  What’s got hold of me?  I used to work well enough.  It’s as if my will had come untwisted and was ravelling out into separate strands.  I’ve lost my unity.  I’m not a man but a mob.  I’ve got to recover my vigour.  At any cost.”

Again as the doctor was about to speak the word was taken out of his mouth.  “And what I think of it, Dr. Martineau, is this:  it’s fatigue.  It’s mental and moral fatigue.  Too much effort.  On too high a level.  And too austere.  One strains and fags.  Flags!  ‘Flags’ I meant to say.  One strains and flags and then the lower stuff in one, the subconscious stuff, takes control.”

There was a flavour of popularized psychoanalysis about this, and the doctor drew in the corners of his mouth and gave his head a critical slant.  “M’m.”  But this only made Sir Richmond raise his voice and quicken his speech.  “I want,” he said, “a good tonic.  A pick-me-up, a stimulating harmless drug of some sort.  That’s indicated anyhow.  To begin with.  Something to pull me together, as people say.  Bring me up to the scratch again.”

“I don’t like the use of drugs,” said the doctor.