The doctor looks at his colleague. ''You hear,'' he says, ''how well the account matches Mrs Rivers''s own? It is quite remarkable!—as if, in making a burden of her life, she seeks to hand that burden to another, better able to bear it. She has made a fiction of herself!'' He returns to me. ''A fiction, indeed,'' he says thoughtfully. ''Tell me this, Miss Smith: does your mistress care for books? for reading?''
I meet his gaze, but my throat seems to close, or be splintered, like the boards on the floor. I cannot answer. Richard speaks in my behalf. ''My wife,'' he says, ''was born to a literary life. Her uncle, who raised her, is a man dedicated to the pursuit of learning, and saw to her education as he might have seen to a son''s. Mrs Rivers''s first passion was books.''
''There you have it!'' says the doctor. ''Her uncle, an admirable gentleman I don''t doubt. But the over-exposure of girls to literature— The founding of women''s colleges—'' His brow is sleek with sweat. ''We are raising a nation of brain-cultured women. Your wife''s distress, I''