the toughness and compactness of its fibre. Absolute dementia may not
be the result for some years, but there will be occasional and
painful indications of the end for a long space before it arrives. The
indications, as a rule, will assume the form of visions and dreams and
wild imaginings of various sorts. Now do you understand me?"

"You mean," said Dartmouth, wheeling about and looking him directly in
the eyes, "you mean that I am going mad?"

"I mean, my dear boy, that you will be a raving maniac inside of a
month, unless you dislodge from your brain this horrible, unnatural,
and ridiculous idea."

"Do I look like a madman?" demanded Dartmouth.

"Not at the present moment, no. You look remarkably sane. A man with
as good a brain as yours does not let it go all at once. It will slide
from you imperceptibly, bit by bit, until one day there will be a
climax."

"I am not mad," said Dartmouth; "and if I were, my madness would be an
effect, not a cause. What is more, I know enough about melancholia to
know that it does not drift into dementia until middle age at least.
Moreover, my brain is not relaxed in my ordinary attacks; my
spirits are prostrate, and my disgust for life is absolute, but my
brain--except when it has been over-exerted, as in one or two climaxes
of this experience of mine--is as clear as a bell. I have done some of
my best thinking with my hand on the butt of a pistol. But to return
to the question we are discussing. You have left one or two of the
main facts unexplained. What caused Weir's vision? She never had an