in these terms, he might have said
something more. He might have added, that his dread of the loss of
Carmina's reason really meant his dread of a commonplace termination to
an exceptionally interesting case. He might also have acknowledged, that
he was not yielding obedience to the rules of professional etiquette,
in confiding the patient to her regular medical attendant, but following
the selfish suggestions of his own critical judgment.

His experience, brief as it had been, had satisfied him that stupid Mr.
Null's course of action could be trusted to let the instructive progress
of the malady proceed. Mr. Null would treat the symptoms in perfect
good faith--without a suspicion of the nervous hysteria which, in such a
constitution as Carmina's, threatened to establish itself, in course
of time, as the hidden cause. These motives--not only excused, but even
ennobled, by their scientific connection with the interests of Medical
Research--he might have avowed, under more favourable circumstances.
While his grand discovery was still barely within reach, Doctor Benjulia
stood committed to a system of diplomatic reserve, which even included
simple Mr. Gallilee.

He took his hat and stick, and walked out into the hall. "Can I be of
further use?" he asked carelessly. "You will hear about the patient from
Mr. Null."

"You won't desert Carmina?" said Mr. Gallilee. "You will see her
yourself, from time to time--won't you?"

"Don't be afraid; I'll look after her." He spoke sincerely in saying
this. Carmina's case had already suggested new ideas. Even the civilised
savage of modern physiology (where his own interests are concerned) is
not absolutely insensible to a feeling of gratitude.

Mr. Gallilee opened the door for him.

"By the-bye," he added, as he stepped out, "what's become of Zo?"

"She's upstairs, in the schoolroom."

He made one of his dreary jokes. "Tell her, when she wants to be tickled
again, to let me know. Good-evening!"

Mr. Gallilee returned to the upper part of the house, with the papers
left by Benjulia in his hand. Arriving at the dressing-room door, he
hesitated. The papers were enclosed in a sealed envelope, addressed
to his wife. Secured in this way from inquisitive eyes, there was no
necessity for personally presenting them. He went on to the schoolroom,
and beckoned to the parlour-maid to come out, and speak to him.

Having instructed her to deliver the papers--telling her mistress that
the