Frank felt a little nervous, he scarcely knew why.  It seemed to him that it would be far better not to refer to the past at all.  And it appeared to him a little unusual that a doctor should be so anxious about it.  Twice or three times since yesterday this old man had begun to ask him a question and had checked himself.  There was a very curious eagerness about him now.

“I’m awfully grateful and all that,” said Frank.  “Is there anything special you want to know?  I suppose I’ve been talking about my people?”

The doctor waved a wrinkled hand.

“No, no,” he said, “not a word.  You talked about a girl a little, of course—­everybody does; but not much.  No, it isn’t that.”

Frank felt relieved.  He wasn’t anxious about anything else.

“I’m glad of that.  By the way, may I smoke?”

The doctor produced a leather case of cigarettes and held it out.

“Take one of these,” he said.

“Because,” continued Frank, “I’m afraid I mustn’t talk about my people.  The name I’ve got now is Gregory, you know.”  He lit his cigarette, noticing how his fingers still shook, and dropped the match.

“No, it’s not about that,” said the doctor; “it’s not about that.”

Frank glanced at him, astonished by his manner.

“Well, then—?” he began.

“I want to know first,” said the doctor slowly, “where you’ve got all your ideas from.  I’ve never heard such a jumble in my life.  I know you were delirious; but ... but it hung together somehow; and it seemed much more real to you than anything else.”

“What did?” asked Frank uncomfortably.

The doctor made no answer for a moment.  He looked out across the untidy garden with its rich, faded finery of wild flowers and autumn leaves, and the yellowing foliage beyond the wall, and the moors behind—­all transfigured in October sunshine.  The smoke of the burning weeds drew heavenly lines and folds of ethereal lace-work across the dull splendors beyond.

“Well,” he said at last, “everything.  You know I’ve heard hundreds and hundreds of folks ...” he broke off again, “... and I know what people call religion about here—­and such a pack of nonsense ...” (He turned on Frank again suddenly.) “Where d’you get your ideas from?”

“Do you mean the Catholic religion?” said Frank.

“Bah! don’t call it that.  I know what that is—­” Frank interrupted him.

“Well, that’s my religion,” he said.  “I haven’t got any other.”

“But ... but the way you hold it,” cried the other; “the grip ... the grip it has of you.  That’s the point.  D’you mean to tell me—­”

“I mean that I don’t care for anything else in the whole world,” said Frank, stung with sudden enthusiasm.

“But ... but you’re not mad!  You’re a very sensible, fellow.  You don’t mean to tell me you really believe all that—­all that about pain and so on?  We doctors know perfectly what all that is.  It’s a reaction of Nature ... a warning to look out ... it’s often simply the effects of building up; and we’re beginning to think—­ah! that won’t interest you!  Listen to me!  I’m what they call a specialist—­an investigator.  I can tell you, without conceit, that I probably know all that is to be known on a certain subject.  Well, I can tell you as an authority—­”