"It will be a Parliament of love then," retorted the doctor, dryly,
"and not mediaeval either."
Frettlby took the doctor's arm, and walked away with him. "I want you
to come up to my study, doctor," he said, as they strolled towards the
house, "and examine me."
"Why, don't you feel well?" said Chinston, as they entered the house.
"Not lately," replied Frettlby. "I'm afraid I've got heart disease."
The doctor looked sharply at him, and then shook his head.
"Nonsense," he said, cheerfully, "it's a common delusion with people
that they have heart disease, and in nine cases, out of ten
it's all imagination; unless, indeed," he added waggishly, "the patient
happens to be a young man."
"Ah! I suppose you think I'm safe as far as that goes," said Frettlby,
as they entered the study; "and what did you think of Rolleston's
argument about people being mad?"
"It was amusing," replied Chinston, taking a seat, Frettlby doing the
same. "That's all I can say about it, though, mind you, I think there
are more mad people at large than the world is aware of."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; do you remember that horrible story of Dickens', in the 'Pickwick
Papers,' about the man who was mad, and knew it, yet successfully
concealed it for years? Well, I believe there are many people like that
in the world, people whose lives are one long struggle against
insanity, and yet who eat, drink, talk, and walk with the rest of their
fellow-men, apparently as gay and light-hearted as they are.
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