Doctor
Tarrant looked at no one as he stroked and soothed his daughter; his
eyes wandered round the cornice of the room, and he grinned upward, as
if at an imaginary gallery. "Quietly--quietly," he murmured from time to
time. "It will come, my good child, it will come. Just let it work--just
let it gather. The spirit, you know; you've got to let the spirit come
out when it will." He threw up his arms at moments, to rid himself of
the wings of his long waterproof, which fell forward over his hands.
Basil Ransom noticed all these things, and noticed also, opposite, the
waiting face of his cousin, fixed, from her sofa, upon the closed eyes
of the young prophetess. He grew more impatient at last, not of the
delay of the edifying voice (though some time had elapsed), but of
Tarrant's grotesque manipulations, which he resented as much as if he
himself had felt their touch, and which seemed a dishonour to the
passive maiden. They made him nervous, they made him angry, and it was
only afterwards that he asked himself wherein they concerned him, and
whether even a carpet-bagger hadn't a right to do what he pleased with
his daughter. It was a relief to him when Verena got up from her chair,
with a movement which made Tarrant drop into the background as if his
part were now over.
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