“I wish I had cheek enough to open some of them,” she thought; “but I’m afraid I haven’t. I shouldn’t know what to say if there was some one in the room. After all, I’m supposed to be a guest. I’ve got to be a little discreet about my prying.” She went softly along the hall to the window, to see what was out there. When she reached it, she was surprised to see that the last door was a little ajar. She looked through the crack. It wasn’t a room in there, but another hall, only a few feet long, ending at a narrow staircase. “That must be the way to the cupola,” she thought. “I suppose a guest might go up there, to see the view.” So she pushed the door open and went on tiptoe to the stairs; and then she heard a voice which she had no trouble in recognizing. It was Dr. Quelton’s. “My dear young man,” he was saying. “I am not a psychologist. It has always seemed to me the greatest folly to devote serious study to the workings of so erratic and incalculable a machine as the human brain. It is a study in which there are, practically speaking, no general rules, no trustworthy data. It is, in my opinion, not a science at all, but a philosophy; and philosophy makes no appeal to me. I frankly admit that I am entirely materialistic. I care little for causes, but much for effects. Consequently, I have devoted myself to medicine, in which I can produce certain effects according to established rules.” “But I meant more particularly the effect of—of things on the mind—the brain, you know,” said Captain Grey’s voice. Again Lexy felt a great pity for him. He sounded very, very young in contrast to the doctor—so young and earnest, and so helpless! “Exactly!” said the doctor. “You were, I believe, trying to lead to a suggestion that psychology might be of help to Muriel. Am I right?” There was a moment’s pause, during which Lexy very cautiously went halfway up the stairs. “I did think of that,” said the young man valiantly. “It seems to me she’s a bit—well, morbid, you know; and I’ve heard about those chaps—those psychoanalysts, you know. Simply occurred to me that one of them—merely a suggestion, you know. I’m not trying to be officious.” “A psychoanalyst,” said Dr. Quelton, “is a man who analyzes the psyche, who solemnly and expensively analyzes something of whose existence he has no proof whatever.” There was another silence.