“I know you don’t altogether approve of him, Uncle Tom, but he’s such a charming, whimsical, gentle creature, just a little mad they seem to think in the village, but Gervase has always made a friend of him.” “So I understand.” The voice was that of a statesman; the frown was growing portentous. “Well, every day since Gervase came home the dear fellow has picked a bunch of flowers on the common and brought them here. And every day he has begged to see Gervase. A fortnight ago, when Gervase had been out of his room twice, I decided that he might. I felt sure no harm could come of it. So he came and it seems he talked to Gervase of a poem he had written--I didn’t hear the conversation so I can’t throw much light on it--but the next day he returned with the poem. And the amazing part is that Gervase read it, and dating from then he seems to have found a new interest in everything.” “And you are inclined to attribute the change in the first place to the effect of this man’s verses?” “Yes. It seems a little absurd. But in my own mind I can’t help thinking that the improvement is entirely due to John Smith.” “Have you read these verses, by the way?” “No. It’s quite a long poem, I believe, stanza upon stanza, but Gervase returned it at once. Since its effect has been so remarkable I am thinking of trying to get hold of it.” “Doesn’t this strike you as very odd, that is, assuming your theory of the poem’s effect upon a man like Gervase to be correct?” “Yes, quite extraordinary. He was always so fastidious, a man to whom only the best and highest appealed.” “Quite so.” The vicar pursed his lips. “And it is a fact to look in the face, my dear Millicent. As you know, I am a great believer in looking facts in the face.” “You think, Uncle Tom, it implies mental deterioration?” “One hardly likes to say that,” said the vicar cautiously. “But that is what we have to fear.” A deepening anxiety crept into the eyes of the wife. “It does seem a reasonable explanation. But please don’t forget that Gervase took no interest in any subject until John Smith came, and that now he has begun to read the Bible.” “It is certainly remarkable if such is the case. By the way, do the doctors allow him to read the Bible?” “He may read anything.” “And they consider him quite rational?” “Perfectly rational.” Millicent looked at the vicar in some surprise. “Don’t you, Uncle Tom?” The vicar would have evaded the question had he been able to do so. But with those candid eyes upon him that was impossible. Moreover, the old habit of fearless honesty in all things did not permit a deliberate lie. Millicent declined to accept his silence. “You don’t!” She pinned him down to a reply. “If the doctors are satisfied,” said the vicar slowly, “that is the important thing. One doesn’t set up one’s opinion against theirs, you know.” But he was not to escape in that way.