She darted back into the living room, perching on the arm of the
davenport beside the Doctor. "Well?" she said, running her hand through his grizzled hair. "What's
the verdict?" "Seems like a nice kid," grumbled Horker reluctantly. "Nice enough,
but introverted, repressed, and I shouldn't be surprised to find him
anti-social. Doesn't adjust easily to his environment; takes refuge in
a dream world of his own." "That's what he accuses me of doing," grinned Pat. "That all you've got
against him?" "That's all, but where's that streak of mastery you mentioned? You lead
him around on a leash!" "It didn't show up tonight. That's the thrill--the unexpectedness of
it." "Bah! You must've dreamed it. There's no more aggressiveness in that
lad than in KoKo, your canary." "Don't you believe it, Dr. Carl! The trouble is that he's a genius, and
that's where your psychology falls flat." "Genius," said the Doctor oracularly, "is a sublimation of qualities--"

"I'll tell you tomorrow how sublime the qualities are," called Pat as
she skipped out of the door. 4

The Transfiguration


The car slid smoothly along a straight white road that stretched ahead
into the darkness like an earth-bound Milky Way. In the dim distance
before them, red as Antares, glowed the tail-light of some automobile;
except for this lone evidence of humanity, reflected Pat, they might
have been flashing through the cosmic depths of interstellar space,
instead of following a highway in the very shadow of Chicago. The
colossal city of the lake-shore was invisible behind them, and the
clustering suburbs with it. "Queer, isn't it?" said Pat, after a silence, "how contented we can
be with none of the purchased amusement people crave--shows, movies,
dancing, and all that." "It doesn't seem queer to me," answered Nick. "Not when I look at you
here beside me." "Nice of you!" retorted Pat. "But it's never happened to me before." She paused, then continued, "How do you like the Doctor?" "How does he like me? That's considerably more to the point, isn't it?" "He thinks you're nice, but--let's see--introverted, repressed, and
ill-adjusted to your environment. I think those were the points." "Well, _I_ liked _him_, in spite of your manoeuvers, and in spite of
his being a doctor." "What's wrong with being a doctor?" "Did you ever read 'Tristram Shandy'?" was Nick's irrelevant response. "No, but I read the newspapers!" "What's the connection, Pat?" "Just as much connection as there is between the evils of being a
doctor and reading 'Tristram Shandy'. I know that much about the book,
at least." "You're nearly right," laughed Nick. "I was just referring to one of
Tristram's remarks on doctors and lawyers. It fits my attitude." "What's the remark?" "Well, he had the choice of professions, and it occurred to him that
medicine and law were the vulture professions, since lawyers live
by men's quarrels and doctors by men's misfortunes. So--he became a
writer." "And what do writers live by?" queried Pat mischievously. "By men's
stupidity!" "You're precious, Pat!" Nick chuckled delightedly. "If I'd created you
to order, I couldn't have planned you more to taste--pepper, tabasco
sauce, vinegar, spice, and honey!" "And to be taken with a grain of salt," retorted the girl, puckering
her piquant, impish features. She edged closer to him, locking her arm
through his where it rested on the steering wheel. "Nick," she said, her tones suddenly gentle, "I think I'm pretty crazy
about you. Heaven knows why I should be, but it's a fact." "Pat, dear!" "I'm crazy about you in this meek, sensitive pose of yours, and I'm
fascinated by those masterful moments you flash occasionally. Really,
Nick, I almost wish you flamed out oftener." "Don't!" he said sharply. "Why not?" "Let's not talk about me, Pat. It--embarrasses me." "All right, Mr. Modesty! Let's talk about me, then. I'll promise we
won't succeed in embarrassing me." "And it's quite the most interesting subject in the world, Pat." "Well, then?" "What?" "Why don't you start talking? The topic is all attention." He chuckled. "How many men have told you you were beautiful, Pat?" "I never kept account." "And in many different ways?" "Why? Have you, perchance, discovered a new way, Nick?" "Not at all. The oldest way of any, the way of Sappho and Pindar." "O-ooh!" She clapped her hands in mock delight. "Poetry!" "The only medium that could possibly express how lovely you are," said
Nick. "Nicholas, have you gone and composed a poem to me?" "Composed? No. It isn't necessary, with you here beside me." "What's that? Some very subtle compliment?" "Not subtle, Pat. You're the poem yourself; all I need do is look at
you, listen to you, and translate." "Neat!" applauded the girl. "Do I hear the translation?" "You certainly do." He turned his odd amber-green eyes on her, then
bent forward to the road. He began to speak in a low voice. "In no far country's silent ways
      Shall I forget one little thing--
    The soft intentness of your gaze,
      The sweetness of your murmuring
    Your generously tender praise,
      The words just hinted by a breath--
    In no far country's silent way,
      Unless that country's name be Death--"

He paused abruptly, and drove silently onward. "Oh," breathed Pat. "Why don't you go on, Nick? Please." "No. It isn't the mood for this night, Dear. Not this night, alone with
you." "What is, then?" "Nothing sentimental. Something lighter, something--oh, Elizabethan. That's it." "And what's stopping you?" "Lack of an available idea. Or--wait. Listen a moment." He began, this
time in a tone of banter. "When mornings, you attire yourself
      For riding in the city,
    You're such a lovely little elf,
      Extravagantly pretty! And when at noon you deign to wear
      The habit of the town,
    I cannot call to mind as fair
      A symphony in brown. "Then evenings, you blithely don
      A daintiness of white,
    To flash a very paragon
      Of lightsomeness--and light! But when the rounds of pleasure cease,
      And you retire at night,
    The Godling on your mantelpiece
      Must know a fairer sight!" "Sweet!" laughed Pat. "But personal. And anyway, how do you know I've a
godling on my mantel? Don't you credit me with any modesty?" "If you haven't, you should have! The vision I mentioned ought to
enliven even a statue." "Well," said the girl, "I have one--a jade Buddha, and with all the
charms I flash before him nightly, he's never batted an eyelash. Explain that!" "Easily. He's green with envy, and frozen with admiration, and struck
dumb by wonder." "Heavens! I suppose I ought to be thankful you didn't say he was
petrified with fright!" Pat laughed. "Oh Nick," she continued, in a
voice gone suddenly dreamy, "this _is_ marvelous, isn't it? I mean our
enjoying ourselves so completely, and our being satisfied to be so
alone. Why, we've never even danced together." "So we haven't. That's a subterfuge we haven't needed, isn't it?"