"Why, what on earth have you to do but to abhor and flee me?" asked
he, with a laugh, though by no means a merry one.

"Would your having a headache be a reason for the medical man's
running away from you, or coming to visit you?"

"Ah, but this, you know, is my 'fault,' and my 'crime,' and my
'sin.' Eh?" and he laughed again.

"Would the doctor visit you the less, because it was your own fault
that your head ached?"

"Ah, but suppose I professed openly no faith in his powers of
curing, and had a great hankering after unaccredited Homoeopathies,
like Mr. Windrush's; would not that be a fair cause for interdiction
from fire and water, sacraments and Christian burial?"

"Come, come, Templeton," I said; "you shall not thus jest away
serious thoughts with an old friend. I know you are ill at ease.
Why not talk over the matter with me fairly and soberly? How do you
know till you have tried, whether I can help you or not?"

"Because I know that your arguments will have no force with me; they
will demand of me or assume in me, certain faculties, sentiments,
notions, experiences-call them what you like; I am beginning to
suspect sometimes with Cabanis that they are 'a product of the small
intestines'-which I never have had, and never could make myself
have, and now don't care whether I have them or not."