re that, in
human psychology, two and two make precisely four, no more and no
less.

But such is not the case. In human psychology two and two can just as
easily make ten, or fifteen, or any other number; and prophecy in the
matter is about as great a waste of time as worrying over the
possibilities of the weather. The constitution of the nervous system
cannot be estimated until put to the test. And when the first test has
revealed to us the long-awaited secret, it is just as likely to be
flatly contradicted by the second. The whole thing is the very
mischief.

Those who knew him would have been quite certain that in Scipio's case
there could only be one result from the addition of the two and two of
his psychology. In a man of his peculiar mental caliber it might well
seem that there could be no variation to the sum. And the resulting
prophecy would necessarily be an evil, or at least a pessimistic one.
He was so helpless, so lacking in all the practicalities of human
life. He seemed to have one little focus that was quite incapable of
expansion, of adaptability. That focus was almost entirely filled by
his Jessie's image, with just a small place in it reserved for his
twins. Take the woman out of it, and, to all intents and purposes, he
looked out upon a dead white blank.

Every thought in his inadequate brain was centered round his wife. She
was the mainspring of his every emotion. His love for her was his
whole being. It was something so great and strong that it enveloped
all his senses. She was his, and he was incapable of imagining life
without her. She was his, and only death could alter so obvious a
fact. She was his vanguard in life's battle, a support that shored up
his confidence and courage to face, with a calm determination,
whatever that battle had to offer him.

But with Jessie's going all prophecy would have remained unfulfilled.
Scipio did not go under in the manner to have been expected of him.
After the first shock, outwardly at least, there appeared to be no
change in him. His apparently colorless personality drifted on in
precisely the same amiable, inconsequent manner. What his moments of
solitude were, only he knew. The agony of grief through which he
passed, the long sleepless nights, the heartbreaking sense of loss,
these things lay hidden under his meaningless exterior, which,
however, defied the revelation of his secret.

After the passing of the first madness which had sent him headlon