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Updated: May 16, 2025
Brighton-Pomfrey was away at the front of all places; he had gone for some weeks; would the bishop like to see Dr. Dale? The bishop hesitated. He had never set eyes on this Dr. Dale. Indeed, he had never heard of Dr. Dale.
Brighton-Pomfrey was meditating now with his eyes on his carpet and the corners of his mouth tucked in. He was swinging his glasses pendulum-wise. "Tell me," he said, looking sideways at Scrope, "what were the effects of this drug? It may have been anything. How did it give you this this vision of the truth that led to your resignation?" Scrope felt a sudden shyness.
Brighton-Pomfrey ought never to have left his practice in the hands of this wild-eyed experimenter. Strange that after a lifetime of discretion and men's respect one should be standing on the Piccadilly pavement intoxicated! It came into his head that he was not so very far from the Athenaeum, and surely there if anywhere a bishop may recover his sense of being ordinary.
Brighton-Pomfrey had the savoir-faire of a successful consultant; he prided himself on being all things to all men; but just for an instant he was at a loss what sort of thing he had to be here. Then he adopted the genial, kindly, but by no means lavishly generous tone advisable in the case of a man who has suffered considerable social deterioration without being very seriously to blame. Dr.
One was that he had stated his case to another human being, and that a very charming and sympathetic human being, he was no longer a prey to a current of secret and concealed thoughts running counter to all the appearances of his outward life; and the other was that he was now within an hour or so of Brighton-Pomfrey and a cigarette.
"I felt suddenly clearer. My mind I had a kind of exaltation and assurance." "Your mind," Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey assisted, "began to go twenty-nine to the dozen." "It felt stronger and clearer," said Scrope, sticking to his quest. "And did things look as usual?" asked the doctor, protruding his knobby little face like a clenched fist. "No," said Scrope and regarded him.
Seeing his old friend Brighton-Pomfrey and being gently and tactfully told to do exactly what he was longing to do was one thing; facing some strange doctor and going slowly and elaborately through the whole story of his illness, his vow and his breakdown, and perhaps having his reaction time tested and all sorts of stripping and soundings done, was quite another.
And he put on his glasses disconcertingly, and threw his head back to watch the reply. "It did help to clear up the situation." "Exactly," said Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey in a tone that defined his own position with remorseless clearness. "Exactly." And he held up a flat, arresting hand. . "My dear Sir," he said.
And his voice was harsh, and the bishop was particularly sensitive to voices. He began by understanding far too much of the bishop's illness, and he insisted on various familiarities with the bishop's heart and tongue and eye and knee that ruffled the bishop's soul. "Brighton-Pomfrey talked of neurasthenia?" he asked. "That was his diagnosis," said the bishop.
He went to Brighton-Pomfrey too upon the score of his general health, and Brighton-Pomfrey revised his general regimen, discouraged indiscreet fasting, and suggested a complete abstinence from red wine except white port, if indeed that can be called a red wine, and a moderate use of Egyptian cigarettes. But 1913 was a strenuous year.
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