"Inspiration," said Quinny, eliminating Steingall from his preserves
with the gesture of brushing away a fly--"inspiration is only a form of
hypnosis, under the spell of which a man is capable of rising outside of
and beyond himself, as a horse, under extraordinary stress, exerts a
muscular force far beyond his accredited strength. The race of geniuses,
little and big, are constantly seeking this outward force to hypnotize
them into a supreme intellectual effort. Talent does not understand such
a process; it is mechanical, unvarying, chop-chop, day in and day out.
Now, what you call inspiration may be communicated in many ways--by the
spectacle of a mob, by a panorama of nature, by sudden and violent
contrasts of points of view; but, above all, as a continual stimulus,
it comes from that state of mental madness which is produced by love."

"Huh?" said Stibo.

"Anything that produces a mental obsession, _une idée fixe_, is a form
of madness," said Quinny, rapidly. "A person in love sees only one face,
hears only one voice; at the base of the brain only one thought is
constantly drumming. Physically such a condition is a narcotic; mentally
it is a form of madness that in the beneficent state is powerfully
hypnotic."

At this deft disentanglement of a complicated idea, Rankin, who, like
the professional juryman, wagged his head in agreement with each speaker
and was convinced by the most violent, gazed upon Quinny with absolute
adoration.

"We were speaking of woman," said Towsey, gruffly, who pronounced the
sex with a peculiar staccato sound.