What was the matter
with him? Oh, she thought she had mentioned that; he was a mesmeric
healer, he made miraculous cures. She didn't believe in his system or
disbelieve in it, one way or the other; she only knew that she had been
called to see ladies he had worked on, and she found that he had made
them lose a lot of valuable time. He talked to them--well, as if he
didn't know what he was saying. She guessed he was quite ignorant of
physiology, and she didn't think he ought to go round taking
responsibilities. She didn't want to be narrow, but she thought a person
ought to know something. She supposed Basil would think her very
uplifted; but he had put the question to her, as she might say. All she
could say was she didn't want him to be laying his hands on any of _her_
folks; it was all done with the hands--what wasn't done with the tongue!
Basil could see that Doctor Prance was irritated; that this extreme
candour of allusion to her neighbour was probably not habitual to her,
as a member of a society in which the casual expression of strong
opinion generally produced waves of silence. But he blessed her
irritation, for him it was so illuminating; and to draw further profit
from it he asked her who the young lady was with the red hair--the
pretty one, whom he had only noticed during the last ten minutes.
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