Mrs. Hilary passed a church. Religion. Some people found help there. But it required so much of you, was so exhausting in its demands. Besides, it seemed infinitely far away--an improbable, sad, remote thing, that gave you no human comfort. Psycho-analysis was better; that opened gates into a new life. "Know thyself," Mrs. Hilary murmured, kindling at the prospect. Most knowledge was dull, but never that. "I will ring up from Waterloo and make an appointment," she thought. CHAPTER VI JIM 1 The psycho-analyst doctor was little and dark and while he was talking he looked not at Mrs. Hilary but down at a paper whereon he drew or wrote something she tried to see and couldn't. She came to the conclusion after a time that he was merely scribbling for effect. "Insomnia," he said. "Yes. You know what _that_ means?" She said, foolishly, "That I can't sleep," and he gave her a glance of contempt and returned to his scribbling. "It means," he told her, "that you are afraid of dreaming. Your unconscious self won't _let_ you sleep.... Do you often recall your dreams when you wake?" "Sometimes." "Tell me some of them, please." "Oh, the usual things, I suppose. Packing; missing trains; meeting people; and just nonsense that means nothing. All the usual things, that everyone dreams about." At each thing she said he nodded, and scribbled with his pencil. "Quite," he said, "quite. They're bad enough in meaning, the dreams you've mentioned. I don't suppose you'd care at present to hear what they symbolise.... The dreams you haven't mentioned are doubtless worse. And those you don't even recall are worst of all. Your unconscious is, very naturally and properly, frightened of them.... Well, we must end all that, or you'll never sleep as you should. Psycho-analysis will cure these dreams; first it will make you remember them, then you'll talk them out and get rid of them." "Dreams," said Mrs. Hilary. "Well, they may be important. But it's my whole life...." "Precisely. I was coming to that. Of course you can't cure sleeplessness until you have cured the fundamental things that are wrong with your life. Now, if you please, tell me all you can about yourself." Here was the wonderful moment. Mrs. Hilary drew a long breath, and told him. A horrid (she felt that somehow he was rather horrid) little man with furtive eyes that wouldn't meet hers--(and he wasn't quite a gentleman, either, but still, he wanted to hear all about her) he was listening attentively, drinking it in. Not watching tennis while she talked, like Barry Briscoe in the garden. Ah, she could go on and on, never tired; it was like swimming in warm water.