No doubt I am a materialist.  Agatha says that I am a rank one.  I tell her that is an excellent reason for shortening our engagement, since I am in such urgent need of her spirituality.  And yet I may claim to be a curious example of the effect of education upon temperament, for by nature I am, unless I deceive myself, a highly psychic man.  I was a nervous, sensitive boy, a dreamer, a somnambulist, full of impressions and intuitions.  My black hair, my dark eyes, my thin, olive face, my tapering fingers, are all characteristic of my real temperament, and cause experts like Wilson to claim me as their own.  But my brain is soaked with exact knowledge.  I have trained myself to deal only with fact and with proof.  Surmise and fancy have no place in my scheme of thought.  Show me what I can see with my microscope, cut with my scalpel, weigh in my balance, and I will devote a lifetime to its investigation.  But when you ask me to study feelings, impressions, suggestions, you ask me to do what is distasteful and even demoralizing.  A departure from pure reason affects me like an evil smell or a musical discord.

Which is a very sufficient reason why I am a little loath to go to Professor Wilson’s tonight.  Still I feel that I could hardly get out of the invitation without positive rudeness; and, now that Mrs. Marden and Agatha are going, of course I would not if I could.  But I had rather meet them anywhere else.  I know that Wilson would draw me into this nebulous semi-science of his if he could.  In his enthusiasm he is perfectly impervious to hints or remonstrances.  Nothing short of a positive quarrel will make him realize my aversion to the whole business.  I have no doubt that he has some new mesmerist or clairvoyant or medium or trickster of some sort whom he is going to exhibit to us, for even his entertainments bear upon his hobby.  Well, it will be a treat for Agatha, at any rate.  She is interested in it, as woman usually is in whatever is vague and mystical and indefinite.

10.50 P. M. This diary-keeping of mine is, I fancy, the outcome of that scientific habit of mind about which I wrote this morning.  I like to register impressions while they are fresh.  Once a day at least I endeavor to define my own mental position.  It is a useful piece of self-analysis, and has, I fancy, a steadying effect upon the character.  Frankly, I must confess that my own needs what stiffening I can give it.  I fear that, after all, much of my neurotic temperament survives, and that I am far from that cool, calm precision which characterizes Murdoch or Pratt-Haldane.  Otherwise, why should the tomfoolery which I have witnessed this evening have set my nerves thrilling so that even now I am all unstrung?  My only comfort is that neither Wilson nor Miss Penclosa nor even Agatha could have possibly known my weakness.

And what in the world was there to excite me?  Nothing, or so little that it will seem ludicrous when I set it down.