“Why do you say so, Doctor?”

“Anybody could have seen it in his manner,” said he.

I tried to evade.  “He was out of sorts,” said I.

“What does ‘out of sorts’ mean?” asked the Doctor.  Then, before I could reply, he continued:  “I have often thought of that expression; it is a good one; it means to say gloomy, depressed, mentally unwell, physically ill perhaps.  Yes, Willis is out of sorts.  Out of sorts means mixed, unclassified, unassorted, having one’s functions disordered.  One who cannot separate his functions distinctly is unwell and, necessarily, miserable.  Willis showed signs of dementia; his brain is not acting right.  I think I can cure him.”

I said nothing.  In the Doctor’s tone there was not a shade of sarcasm.

He continued:  “Perfect sanity would be impossible to predicate of any individual; doubtless there are perfectly sane persons, that is, sane at times, but to find them would be like finding the traditional needle.  I suppose our good friend Willis would rank higher than the average, after all is said.”

“Willis is a good soldier,” said I, “and a good sergeant.”

“Yes, no doubt he is; he ought to know that he is just the man for a soldier and a sergeant, and be content.”

Now, of course, I knew that Dr. Khayme, by his clear knowledge of nature, not to say more, was able to read Willis; but up to this time I had not suspected that Willis’s hopes in regard to Lydia had alarmed or offended my learned friend; so I continued to beat round the subject.

“I cannot see,” said I, “why Willis might not aspire to a commission.  If the war continues, there will be many chances for promotion.”

“The war will continue,” he said, “and Willis may win a commission.  The difference between a lieutenant and a sergeant is greater in pay than in qualification; in fact, a good orderly-sergeant is a rarer man than a good captain.  Let Willis have his commission.  Let that be his ambition, if he persists in murdering people.”

The Doctor was yet writing busily.  I wondered whether his words were intended as a hint for me to speak to Willis; of course I could do nothing of the kind.  I felt that this whole affair was very delicate.  Willis had gone so far as to make me infer that he was very much afraid of me:  why?  Could it be possible that he saw more than I could see?  No, that was a suggestion of mere vanity; he simply dreaded Dr. Khayme’s well-known partiality for me; he feared, not me, but the Doctor.  I was uneasy.  I examined myself; I thought of my past conduct in regard to Lydia, and found nothing to condemn.  I had been rather more distant, I thought, than was necessary.  I must preserve this distance.

“Doctor,” said I, “good-by till to-morrow; I shall stay with the company to-night.”

He looked up.  “You will see Willis?”

“Yes, sir; I suppose so.”

“You might say to him, if you think well, that I thought he left us rather abruptly to-day, and that I don’t think he is very well.”