She rose to her feet. She was so horrified that she staggered backward, pushing her chair behind her. "But you are mad," she said.
He was astonished at her distress. He stood up also.
"My dear," he said, "I can assure you I am not mad. I should have prepared you, I know...."
She looked at him wild-eyed. Then she glanced at the phial, gripped in her hand.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, and going swiftly to the window emptied out the contents of the little bottle. He realized what she was doing too late to prevent her.
"Don't waste that!" he cried, and stepping forward caught hold of her wrist. The phial fell from her white fingers, and crashed upon the rough paved garden path below.
"My dear," he cried, "my dear. You do not understand."
They stood face to face. "It was a tonic," he said. "I have been ill. I need it."
"It is a drug," she answered. "You have been uttering blasphemies."
He dropped her arm and walked half-way across the room. Then he turned and faced her.
"They are not blasphemies," he said. "But I ought not to have surprised you and shocked you as I have done. I want to tell you of changes that have happened to my mind."
