spiritual peace, and in profound harmony with life.
Where were the old rubs, frets, jars and ennuis? Vanished, melted like
yesterday's snows in the sun of this new peace. It was as if she had cast
her burden upon the Lord. That, said her psycho-analyst doctor, was quite
in order; that was what it ought to be like. That was, in effect, what
she had in point of fact done; only the place of the Lord was filled by
himself. To put the matter briefly, transference of burden had been
effected; Mrs. Hilary had laid all her cares, all her perplexities, all
her grief, upon this quiet, acute-looking man, who sat with her twice a
week for an hour, drawing her out, arranging her symptoms for her,
penetrating the hidden places of her soul, looking like a cross between
Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Henry Ainley. Her confidence in him was, he told
her, the expression of the father-image, which surprised Mrs. Hilary a
little, because he was twenty years her junior.

Mrs. Hilary felt that she was getting to know herself very well indeed.
Seeing herself through Mr. Cradock's mind, she felt that she was indeed a
curious jumble of complexes, of strange, mysterious impulses, desires and
fears. Alarming, even horrible in some ways; so that often she thought
"Can he be right about me? Am I really like that? Do I really hope that
Marjorie (Jim's wife) will die, so that Jim and I may be all in all to
each other again? Am I really so wicked?" But Mr. Cradock said that it
was not at all wicked, perfectly natural and normal--the Unconscious
_was_ like that. And worse than that; how much worse he had to break to
Mrs. Hilary, who was refined and easily shocked, by gentle hints and slow
degrees, lest she should be shocked to death. Her dreams, which she had
to recount to him at every sitting, bore such terrible significance--they
grew worse and worse in proportion, as Mrs. Hilary could stand more.

"Ah well," Mrs. Hilary sighed uneasily, after an interpretation into
strange terms of a dream she had about bathing, "it's very odd, when I've
never even thought about things like that."

"Your Unconscious," said Mr. Cradock, firmly, "has thought the more. The
more your Unconscious is obsessed by a thing, the less your conscious
self thinks of it. It is shy of the subject, for that very reason."

Mrs. Hilary was certainly shy of the subject, for that reason or others.
When she felt too shy of it, Mr. Cradock let her change it. "It may be
true," she would say,