little car. In its way. My wife drives it at times. It has one or two
constitutional weaknesses--incidental to the make--gear-box over the
back axle for example--gets all the vibration. Whole machine rather on
the flimsy side. Still--"

He left the topic at that.

Dr. Martineau said something of no consequence about its being a very
comfortable little car.

Somewhere between Brentford and Hounslow, Sir Richmond plunged into
the matter between them. "I don't know how deep we are going into these
psychological probings of yours," he said. "But I doubt very much if we
shall get anything out of them."

"Probably not," said Dr. Martineau.

"After all, what I want is a tonic. I don't see that there is anything
positively wrong with me. A certain lack of energy--"

"Lack of balance," corrected the doctor. "You are wasting energy upon
internal friction."

"But isn't that inevitable? No machine is perfectly efficient. No man
either. There is always a waste. Waste of the type; waste of the
individual idiosyncrasy. This little car, for instance, isn't pulling as
she ought to pull--she never does. She's low in her class. So with
myself; there is a natural and necessary high rate of energy waste.
Moods of apathy and indolence are natural to me. (Damn that omnibus! All
over the road!)"