“Oh, yes, I did: why not? I said the price would be two thousand pounds, and I was ready to go on at once. She has agreed, and sent me a cheque for a thousand this evening.” Merwick stared at him in blank astonishment. “Are you mad?” he asked. “I hope not, though one can never be sure about little points like that. Even doctors like you don’t know exactly what constitutes madness.” Merwick got up. “But is it possible that you don’t see what a terrible risk you run?” he asked. “To see her again, to be with her like that, having to look at her--I saw her this afternoon by the way, hardly human--may not that so easily revive again all that you felt before? It is too dangerous: much too dangerous.” Dick shook his head. “There is not the slightest risk,” he said, “everything within me is utterly and absolutely indifferent to her. I don’t even hate her: if I hated her there might be a possibility of my again loving her. As it is, the thought of her does not arouse in me any emotion of any kind. And really such stupendous calmness deserves to be rewarded. I respect colossal things like that.” He finished his whisky as he spoke, and instantly poured himself out another glass. “That’s the fourth,” said his friend. “Is it? I never count. It shows a sordid attention to uninteresting detail. Funnily enough too, alcohol does not have the smallest effect on me now.” “Why drink then?” “Because if I give it up this entrancing vividness of colour and clarity of outline is a little diminished.” “Can’t be good for you,” said the doctor. Dick laughed. “My dear fellow, look at me carefully,” he said, “and then if you can conscientiously declare that I show any signs of indulging in stimulants, I’ll give them up altogether.”