Archie London was also returning to town, and very early next morning they stood in the hall together waiting for the brougham, while the man who had taken them after rabbits waited outside for a tip.
Tell him to boil his head," said Maurice crossly. "I offered him five bob and he wouldn't take it. Damned cheek
Mr London was scandalized. What were servants coming to? Was it to be nothing but gold? If so, one might as well shut up shop, and say so. He began a story about his wife's monthly nurse. Pippa had treated that woman more than an equal, but what can you expect with half educated people? Half an educa-tion is worse than none.
Hear, hear," said Maurice, yawning.
All the same, Mr London wondered whether noblesse didn't oblige.
Oh, try if you want to.
He stretched a hand into the rain.
Hall, he took it all right, you know.
Did he, the devil?" said Maurice. "Why didn't he take mine? I suppose you gave more.
With shame Mr London confessed this was so. He had in-creased the tip through fear of a snub. The fellow was the limit evidently, yet he couldn't think it was good taste in Hall to take the matter up. When servants are rude one should merely ignore it.
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But Maurice was cross, tired, and worried about his appoint-ment in town, and he felt the episode part of the ungraciousness of Penge. It was in the spirit of revenge that he strolled to the door, and said in his familiar yet alarming way, "Hullo! So five shillings aren't good enough! So you'll only take gold!" He was interrupted by Anne, who had come to see them off.
Best of luck," she said to Maurice with a very sweet expres-sion, then paused, as if inviting confidences. None came, but she added, "I'm so glad you're not horrible.
Are you
Men like to be thought horrible. Clive does. Don't you, Clive? Mr Hall, men are very funny creatures." She took hold of her necklace and smiled. "Very funny. Best of luck." By now she was delighted with Maurice. His situation, and the way he took it, struck her as appropriately masculine. "Now a woman in love," she explained to Clive on the doorstep, as they watched their guests start: "now a woman in love never bluffs—I wish I knew the girl's name.
Interfering with the house-servants, the keeper carried out Maurice's case to the brougham, evidently ashamed. "Stick it in then," said Maurice coldly. Amid wavings from Anne, Clive, and Mrs Durham, they started, and London recommenced the story of Pippa's monthly nurse.
How about a little air?" suggested the victim. He opened the window and looked at the dripping park. The stupidity of so much rain! What did itwant to rain for? The indifference of the universe to man! Descending into woods, the brougham toiled along feebly. It seemed impossible that it should ever reach the station, or Pippa's misfortune cease.
Not far from the lodge there was a nasty little climb, and the road, always in bad condition, was edged with dog roses that scratched the paint. Blossom after blossom crept past them
draggled by the ungenial year: some had cankered, others would never unfold: here and there beauty triumphed, but des-perately, flickering in a world of gloom. Maurice looked into one after another, and though he did not care for flowers the failure irritated him. Scarcely anything was perfect. On one spray every flower was lopsided, the next swarmed with caterpillars, or bulged with galls. The indifference of nature! And her incom-petence! He leant out of the window to see whether she couldn't bring it off once, and stared straight into the bright brown eyes of a young man.
God, why there's that keeper chap again
Couldn't be, couldn't have got here. We left him up at the house.
He could have if he'd run.
Why should he have run
That's true, why should he have?" said Maurice, then lifted the flap at the back of the brougham and peered through it into the rose bushes, which a haze already concealed.
Was it
I couldn't see." His companion resumed the narrative at once, and talked almost without ceasing until they parted at Waterloo.
In the taxi Maurice read over his statement, and its frankness alarmed him. He, who could not trust Jowitt, was putting him-self into the hands of a quack; despite Risley's assurances, he connected hypnotism with seances and blackmail, and had often growled at it from behind theDaily Telegraph; had he not bet-ter retire
But the house seemed all right. When the door opened, the little Lasker Joneses were playing on the stairs—charming chil-dren, who mistook him for "Uncle Peter", and clung to his hands; and when he was shut into the waiting room withPunch the sense of the normal grew stronger. He went to his fate
calmly. He wanted a woman to secure him socially and diminish his lust and bear children. He never thought of that woman as a positive joy—at the worst, Dickie had been that—for during the long struggle he had forgotten what Love is, and sought not happiness at the hands of Mr Lasker Jones, but repose.
That gentleman further relieved him by coming up to his idea of what an advanced scientific man ought to be. Sallow and ex-pressionless, he sat in a large pictureless room before a roll-top desk. "Mr Hall?" he said, and offered a bloodless hand. His ac-cent was slightly American. "Well, Mr Hall, and what's the trouble?" Maurice became detached too. It was as if they met to discuss a third party. "It's all down here," he said, producing the statement. "I've consulted one doctor and he could do nothing. I don't know whether you can.
The statement was read.
I'm not wrong in coming to you, I hope
Not at all, Mr Hall. Seventy-five per cent of my patients are of your type. Is that statement recent
I wrote it last night.
And accurate
Well, names and place are a bit changed, naturally.
Mr Lasker Jones did not seem to think it natural. He asked several questions about "Mr Cumberland", Maurice's pseudo-nym for Clive, and wished to know whether they had ever united: on his lips it was curiously inoffensive. He neither praised nor blamed nor pitied: he paid no attention to a sudden outburst of Maurice's against society. And though Maurice yearned for sympathy—he had not had a word of it for a year— he was glad none came, for it might have shattered his purpose.
He asked, "What's the name of my trouble? Has it one
Congenital homosexuality.
Congenital how much? Well, can anything be done
Oh, certainly, if you consent.
The fact is I've an old-fashioned prejudice against hypno-tism.
I'm afraid you may possibly retain that prejudice after trying, Mr Hall. I cannot promise a cure. I spoke to you of my other patients—seventy-five per cent—but in only fifty per cent have I been successful.
The confession gave Maurice confidence, no quack would have made it. "We may as well have a shot," he said, smiling. "What must I do
Merely remain where you are. I will experiment to see how deeply the tendency is rooted. You will return (if you wish) for regular treatment later. Mr Hall! I shall try to send you into a trance, and if I succeed I shall make suggestions to you which will (we hope) remain, and become part of your normal state when you wake. You are not to resist me.
All right, go ahead.
Then Mr Lasker Jones left his desk and sat in an impersonal way on the arm of Maurice's chair. Maurice felt he was going to have a tooth out. For a little time nothing happened, but presently his eye caught a spot of light on the fire irons, and the rest of the room went dim. He could see whatever he was look-ing at, but little else, and he could hear the doctor's voice and his own. Evidently he was going into a trance, and the achieve-ment gave him a feeling of pride.
You're not quite off yet, I think.
No, I'm not.
He made some more passes. "How about now
I'm nearer off now.
Quite
Maurice agreed, but did not feel sure. "Now that you're quite off, how do you like my consulting-room
It's a nice room.
Not too dark
Rather dark.
You can see the picture though, can't you
Maurice then saw a picture on the opposite wall, yet he knew that there was none.
Have a look at it, Mr Hall. Come nearer. Take care of that crack in the carpet though.
How broad is the crack
You can jump it.
Maurice immediately located a crack, and jumped, but he was not convinced of the necessity.
Admirable—now what do you suppose this picture is of, whom is it of
Whom is it of
Edna May.
Mr Edna May.
No, Mr Hall, Miss Edna May.
It's Mr Edna May.
Isn't she beautiful
I want to go home to my mother." Both laughed at this re-mark, the doctor leading.
Miss Edna May is not only beautiful, she is attractive.
She doesn't attract me," said Maurice pettishly.
Oh Mr Hall, what an ungallant remark. Look at her lovely hair.
I like short hair best.
Why
Because I can stroke it—" and he began to cry. He came to himself in the chair. Tears were wet on his cheeks, but he felt as usual, and started talking at once.
I say, I had a dream when you woke me up. I'd better tell it
you. I thought I saw a face and heard someone say, "That's your friend.' Is that all right? I often feel it—I can't explain—sort of walking towards me through sleep, though it never gets up to me, that dream.
Did it get near now
Jolly near. Is that a bad sign
No, oh no—you're open to suggestion, you're open—I made you see a picture on the wall.
Maurice nodded: he had quite forgotten. There was a pause, during which he produced two guineas, and asked for a second appointment. It was arranged that he should telephone next week, and in the interval Mr Lasker Jones wanted him to re-main where he was in the country, quietly.
Maurice could not doubt that Clive and Anne would welcome him, nor that their influence would be suitable. Penge was an emetic. It helped him to get rid of the old poisonous life that had seemed so sweet, it cured him of tenderness and humanity. Yes, he'd go back, he said: he would wire to his friends and catch the afternoon express.
Mr Hall, take exercise in moderation. A little tennis, or stroll about with a gun.
Maurice lingered to say, "On second thoughts perhaps I won't go back.
Why so
Well, it seems rather foolish to make that long journey twice in a day.
You prefer then to stop in your own home
Yes—no—no, all right, I will go back to Penge.
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