“Of course you are,” countered his father-in-law blandly, “of course you’re a coward. So are nine-hundred and ninety-nine men out of every thousand. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have tried to control this wound in your mind. You were afraid to tell anybody about it, weren’t you?” “I suppose I was.” “Why?” “Cowardice, I suppose. According to your theory.” “Exactly. Don’t you see, Peter, that cowardice and bravery are ridiculous terms?” “No, I don’t,” snapped Peter. “A man either does his job, or he funks it. If he funks it, he’s a coward.” “You mean, if he funks it and doesn’t do it. Supposing he funks it, and does it all the same.” “Then,” admitted Peter, “he’s not a coward.” “Good. Now, let me tell you something. That power which drives the man to do a thing he funks, is not bravery but the will-to-be-brave. Your will-to-be-brave is damaged; you’ve overstrained it. If you go on overstraining it, you’ll lose it altogether. Give it a rest. Do you understand me? Give it a rest. All these repressions you’ve been so proud of—don’t interrupt, you _have_ been proud of them, subconsciously proud—all these repressions are wrong. You’ve bound the wound up tight instead of allowing it to drain. You’ve been sitting on you’re mental safety-valves. If you want to jump when you hear a noise, for God’s sake jump. It’s much better for you than the effort to control yourself. If you’re afraid of open spaces, avoid ’em—don’t go through them with a loaded gun and pretend you’re trying to shoot rabbits. . . .” Peter blushed scarlet; and the lesson went on. One by one, Heron Baynet detailed the Fears—Fear of Open Spaces, Fear of Closed Spaces, Fear of Time, Fear of Money, Fear of Pain and Fear of Death. To his listening son-in-law, the catalogue seemed inexhaustible. “Is everybody afraid of something?” asked the patient at last. “Everybody with any sense,” was the answer. “Fear is the beginning of knowledge.” “Then what are _you_ afraid of?” “I!” Heron Baynet’s quiet eyes held Peter’s for a full second. “I’m afraid of not knowing enough.” . . . “Afraid of not knowing enough!” The phrase lingered in Peter’s mind—as Heron Baynet had intended it should linger: and with it, came back a scrap of Greek wisdom, γνωθι σεαυτον [Greek: gnôthi seauton] (“Know thyself”). For the first time in his life, Peter began to _think_. Hitherto, he had lived automatically; actions had contented him. Now, he started in to reason about his actions. Why had he done thus? Why had he done so? What was the driving-force behind his actions? Why had that driving-force suddenly run down? The process—study of “cause” as opposed to study of “effect”—fascinated a mind hitherto devoid of introspection; so that by the time he went up to town for his second “lesson,” the following question formulated itself: