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Updated: May 13, 2025
"To think that one should be consulted about visions of God in Mount Street!" he said. "And you know, you know you half want to believe that vision was real. You know you do." So far Scrope had been resisting his realization of failure. Now he gave way to an exasperation that made him reckless of Brighton-Pomfrey's opinion.
The bishop stood on the pavement outside Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey's house. The massive door had closed behind him. It had been an act of courage, of rashness if you will, to take this draught. He was acutely introspective, ready for anything, for the most disagreeable or the most bizarre sensations. He was asking himself, Were his feet steady? Was his head swimming? His doubts glowed into assurance.
Brighton-Pomfrey's hands had fallen to his hips. As Scrope went on the doctor's pose had stiffened. His head had gone a little on one side; he had begun to play with his glasses. At the end he gave vent to one or two short coughs, and then pointed his words with his glasses held out. "Tell me," he said, "tell me."
The young man stood upon Brighton-Pomfrey's hearth-rug and was evidently contemplating dissertations. "Of course," he said, as though he discussed a problem with himself, "you must have some sort of comfort. You must get out of this state, one way or another." The bishop nodded assent. He had faint hopes of this young man's ideas of comfort. Dr. Dale reflected.
He would lunch on the train, get to London about two, take a taxi at once to the wise old doctor, catch him over his coffee in a charitable and understanding mood, and perhaps be smoking a cigarette publicly and honourably and altogether satisfyingly before three. So far as Brighton-Pomfrey's door this program was fulfilled without a hitch.
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