for our sex, and for the world, it is not so very strange or unusual to
take pity on us.'

'She has always been queer.'

'You do not hint at any cerebral disequilibrium?' asked Merton.

'Would you mind saying that again?' asked Mrs. Nicholson.

'I meant nothing wrong _here_?' Merton said, laying his finger on his
brow.

'No, not so bad as that,' said Mrs. Nicholson; 'but just queer. Uncommon.
Tells odd stories about--nonsense. She is wearing with her dreams. She
reads books on, I don't know how to call it--Tipsy-cake, Tipsicakical
Search. Histories, _I_ call it.'

'Yes, I understand,' said Merton; 'Psychical Research.'

'That's it, and Hyptonism,' said Mrs. Nicholson, as many ladies do.

'Ah, Hyptonism, so called from its founder, Hypton, the eminent Anglo-
French chemist; he was burned at Rome, one of the latest victims of the
Inquisition,' said Merton.

'I don't hold with Popery, sir, but it served _him_ right.'

'That is all the queerness then!'

'That and general discontentedness.'