"I thought there was a reason. Well, reconnoiter away! Your
precautions are infinite!" Her chin went up.
"That's one of the qualities of genius, I believe. I think in the end I
shall justify my system."
"You haven't produced any psychological condition yet, then?" She
looked at him with her eyebrows raised. No smile.
"Not quite."
"Hasn't it ever occurred to you that"--her eyes sought his with a quick
glance, and drifted away--"that such a condition--might come without
your having produced it yourself? Accidentally, so to speak?"
"I confess I haven't been modest enough to anticipate that."
"I thought you were a diagnostician, as well as a physician!" She threw
another quick look at him, withdrawing her eyes immediately.
"Prognosis is my specialty."
"Oh, I shall take care of myself."
"There's no defense like a vigorous attack."
"I'm not going after you," she protested.
"But _is_ there a psychological condition, Cly?"
"That's not fair. You ought to be able to tell, yourself--it's your own
theory. The trouble is that you're too theoretical. You've left me
quite out of the question and tried to do it all yourself."
She put her head on one side with unaccustomed coquetry. There was a
new glitter in her eyes which seemed to baffle him. For the first time
she had the upper hand of him at his own game. He was like a man who
had started to lift a heavy weight and had suddenly found it
unexpectedly light. The reaction threw him over.
"Are you willing to help?" he asked.
"Ah, if you had only begun that way!"
"Clytie--do you mean--"
"Oh, I don't mean anything." She got up and took a turn about the room
restlessly as she spoke. "It's my turn to be theoretical, that's all."