One of those sweet,
resigned, professional invalids, you know." "Then why not send her a bill tall enough to cure her altogether?" "She might change to psychoanalysis or New Thought," chuckled the
Doctor. "Besides, your father wanted me to look after her, and besides
that, I like having the run of the house." "Well, I'm sure I don't mind," observed Pat. "We've a dog and a canary
bird, too." "You're in fine fettle this afternoon!" laughed her companion. "Must've
been a successful date last night." "It was." Her eyes turned suddenly dreamy. "You're in love again, Pat!" he accused. "Again? Why the 'again'?" "Well, there was Billy, and that Paul--"

"Oh, those!" Her tone was contemptuous. "Merely passing fancies, Doc. Just whims, dreams of the moment--in other words, puppy love." "And this? I suppose this is different--a grand passion?" "I don't know," she said, frowning abruptly. "He's nice, but--odd. Attractive as--well, as the devil." "Odd? How?" "Oh, he's one of those minds you think we moderns lack." "Intellectual, eh? New variety for you; out of the usual run of your
dancing collegiates. I've often suspected that you picked your swains
by the length and lowness of their cars." "Maybe I did. That was one of the chief differences between them." "How'd you meet this mental paragon?" "Billy Fields dragged him around to one of those literary evenings he
affects--where they read Oscar Wilde and Eugene O'Neil aloud. Bill met
him at the library." "And he out-shone all the local lights, I perceive." "He surely did!" retorted Pat. "And he hardly said a word the whole
evening." "He wouldn't have to, if they're all like Billy! What's this prodigy's
specialty?" "He writes. I think--laugh if you want to!--I think perhaps he's a
genius." "Well," said Doctor Horker, "even that's possible. It's been known to
occur, but rarely, to my knowledge, in your generation." "Oh, we're just dimmed by the glare of brilliance from yours." She
swung her legs to the floor, facing the Doctor. "Do you psychiatrists
actually _know_ anything about love?" she queried. "We're supposed to." "What is it, then?" "Just a device of Nature's for perpetuating the species. Some organisms
manage without it, and do pretty well." "Yes. I've heard references to the poor fish!" "Then they're inaccurate; fish have primitive symptoms of eroticism. But below the vertebrates, notably in the amoeba, I don't recall any
amorous habits." "Then your definition doesn't explain a thing, does it?" "Not to one of the victims, perhaps." "Anyway," said Pat decisively, "I've heard of the old biological urge
before your kind analysis. It doesn't begin to explain why one should
be attracted to this person and repelled by that one. Does it?" "No, but Freud does. The famous Oedipus Complex." "That's the love of son for mother, or daughter for father, isn't it? And I don't see how that clears up anything; for example, I can just
barely remember my father." "That's plenty. It could be some little trait in these swains of yours,
some unimportant mannerism that recalls that memory. Or there's that
portrait of him in the hall--the one under the mellow red light. It
might happen that you'd see one of these chaps under a similar light
in some attitude that brings the picture to mind--or a hundred other
possibilities." "Doesn't sound entirely convincing," objected Pat with a thoughtful
frown. "Well, submit to the proper treatments, and I'll tell you exactly what
caused each and every one of your little passing fancies. You can't
expect me to hit it first guess." "Thanks, no! That's one of these courses where you tell the doctor all
your secrets, and I prefer to keep what few I have." "Good judgment, Pat. By the way, you said this chap was odd. Does that
mean merely that he writes? I've known perfectly normal people who
wrote." "No," she said, "it isn't that. It's--he's so sweet and gentle and
manageable most of the time, but sometimes he has such a thrilling
spark of mastery that it almost scares me. It's puzzling but
fascinating, if you grasp my import." "Huh! He's probably a naturally selfish fellow who's putting on a good
show of gentleness for your benefit. Those flashes of tyranny are
probably his real character in moment of forgetfulness." "You doctors can explain anything, can't you?" "That's our business. It's what we're paid for." "Well, you're wrong this time. I know Nick well enough to know if he's
acting. His personality is just what I said--gentle, sensitive, and
yet--It's perplexing, and that's a good part of his charm." "Then it's not such a serious case you've got," mocked the doctor. "When you're cool enough to analyze your own feelings, and dissect the
elements of the chap's attraction, you're not in any danger." "Danger! I can look out for myself, thanks. That's one thing we
mindless moderns learn young, and don't let me catch you puttering
around in my romances! _In loco parentis_ or just plain loco, you'll
get the licking instead of me!" "Believe me, Pat, if I wanted to experiment with affairs of the heart,
I'd not pick a spit-fire like you as the subject." "Well, Doctor Carl, you're warned!" "This Nick," observed the Doctor, "must be quite a fellow to get the
princess of the North Side so het up. What's the rest of his cognomen?" "Nicholas Devine. Romantic, isn't it?" "Devine," muttered Horker. "I don't know any Devines. Who are his
people?" "Hasn't any." "How does he live? By his writing?" "Don't know. I gathered that he lives on some income left by his
parents. What's the difference, anyway?" "None. None at all." The other wrinkled his brows thoughtfully. "There
was a colleague of mine, a Dr. Devine; died a good many years ago. Reputation wasn't anything to brag about; was a little off balance
mentally." "Well, Nick isn't!" snapped Pat with some asperity. "I'd like to meet him." "He's coming over tonight." "So'm I. I want to see your mother." He rose ponderously. "If she's not
playing bridge again!" "Well, look him over," retorted Pat. "And I think your knowledge
of love is a decided flop. I think you're woefully ignorant on the
subject." "Why's that?" "If you'd known anything about it, you could have married mother some
time during the last seventeen years. Lord knows you've tried, and
all you've attained is the state of _in loco parentis_ instead of
_parens_." 3

Psychiatrics of Genius


"How do you charge--by the hour?" asked Pat, as Doctor Horker returned
from the hall. The sound of her mother's departing footsteps pattered
on the porch. "Of course, Young One; like a plumber." "Then your rates per minute must be colossal! The only time you ever
see Mother is a moment or so between bridge games." "I add on the time I waste with you, my dear. Such as now, waiting to
look over that odd swain of yours. Didn't you say he'd be over this
evening?" "Yes, but it's not worth your rates to have him psychoanalyzed. I can
do as well myself." "All right, Pat.