"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. I'll give you a sample analysis free," chuckled the
Doctor, distributing his bulk comfortably on the davenport.
"I don't like free trials," she retorted. "I sent for a beauty-culture
book once, on free trial. I was twelve years only, and returned it in
seven days, but I'm still getting sales letters in the mails. I must be
on every sucker list in the country."
"So that's the secret of your charm."
"What is?"
"You must have read the book, I mean. If you remember the title, I
might try it myself. Think it'd help?"
"Dr. Carl," laughed the girl, "you don't need a book on beauty
culture--you need one on bridge! It's that atrocious game you play
that's bothering Mother."
"Indeed? I shouldn't be surprised if you were right; I've suspected
that."
"Save your surprise for when I'm wrong, Doc. You'll suffer much less
from shock."
"Confident little brat! You're apt to get that knocked out of you some
day, though I hope you never do."
"I can take it," grinned Pat.
"No doubt you can, but you're an adept at handing it out. Where's this
chap of yours?"
"He'll be along. No one's ever stood me up on a date yet."
"I can understand that, you imp! Is that the famous Nick?" he queried
as a car purred to a stop beyond the windows.
"No one else!" said the girl, glancing out. "The Big Thrill in person."
She darted to the door. Horker turned casually to watch her as she
opened it, surveying Nicholas Devine with professional nonchalance.
He entered, tall, slender, with his thin sensitive features sharply
outlined in the light of the hall. He cast a quick glance toward the
Doctor; the latter noted the curious amber-green eyes of the lad, set
wide in the lean face, deep, speculative, the eyes of a dreamer.
"Evening, Nick," Pat was bubbling. The newcomer gave her a hasty
smile, with another glance at the Doctor. "Don't mind Dr. Carl," she
continued. "Aren't you going to kiss me? It irks the medico, and I
never miss a chance."
Nicholas flushed in embarrassment; he gestured hesitantly, then placed
a hasty peck of a kiss on the girl's forehead. He reddened again at the
Doctor's rumble of "Young imp of Satan!"
"Not very good," said Pat reflectively, obviously enjoying the
situation. "I've known you to do better." She pulled him toward the
arch of the living room. "Come meet Dr. Horker. Dr. Carl, this is the
aforesaid Nicholas Devine."
"Dr. Horker," repeated the lad, smiling diffidently. "You're the
psychiatrist and brain specialist, aren't you, Sir?"
"So my patients believe," rumbled the massive Doctor, rising at the
introduction, and grasping the youth's hand. "And you're the genius
Patricia has been raving about. I'm glad to have the chance of looking
you over."
Nick gave the girl a harassed glance, shifting uncomfortably, and
patently at a loss for a reply. She grinned mischievously.
"Sit down, both of you," she suggested helpfully. She seized his hat
from the reluctant hands of Nick, sailing it carelessly to a chair.
"So!" boomed the Doctor, lowering his great bulk again to the
davenport. He eyed the youth sitting nervously before him. "Devine, did
you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"I knew a Devine once. Colleague of mine."
"A doctor? My father was a doctor."
"Dr. Stuart Devine?"
"Yes, sir." He paused. "Did you say you knew him, Dr. Horker?"
"Slightly," rumbled the other. "Only slightly."
"I don't remember him at all, of course, I was very young when he--and
my mother too--died."
"You must have been. Patricia claims you write."
"I try."
"What sort of material?"
"Why--any sort. Prose or poetry; what I feel like writing."
"Whatever inspires you, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir." The lad flushed again.
"Ever have anything published?"
"Yes, sir. In _Nation's Poetry_."
"Never heard of it."
"It has a large circulation," said Nick apologetically.
"Humph! Well, that's something. Whom do you like?"
"Whom do I like?" The youth's tone was puzzled.
"What authors--writers?"
"Oh." He cast another uncomfortable glance at Pat. "Why--I like
Baudelaire, and Poe, and Swinburne, and Villon, and--"
"Decadents, all of them!" sniffed the Doctor. "What prose writers?"
"Well--" He hesitated--"Poe again, and Stern, and Rabelais--"
"Rabelais!" Horker's voice boomed. "Well! Your taste can't be as bad as
I thought, then. There's one we agree on, anyway. And I notice you name
no moderns, which is another good point."
"I haven't read many moderns, sir."
"That's in your favor."
"Cut it!" put in Pat with assumed sharpness. "You've taken enough
whacks at my generation for one day."
"I'm glad to find one of your generation who agrees with me," chuckled
the Doctor. "At least to the extent of not reading its works."
"I'll teach him," grinned Pat. "I'll have him writing vess libre, and
maybe even dadaism, in a week."
"Maybe it won't be much loss," grunted Horker. "I haven't seen any of
his work yet."
"We'll bring some around sooner or later. We will, won't we, Nick?"
"Of course, if you want to. But--"
"He's going to say something modest," interrupted the girl. "He's in
the retiring mood now, but he's apt to change any moment, and snap your
surly head off."
"Humph! I'd like to see it."
"So'd I," retorted Pat. "You've had it coming all day; maybe I'll do it
myself."
"You have, my dear, innumerable times. But I'm like the Hydra, except
that I grow only one head to replace the one you snap off." He turned
again to Nicholas. "Do you work?"
"Yes, sir. At my writing."
"I mean how do you live?"
"Why," said the youth, reddening again in embarrassment, "my parents--"
"Listen!" said Pat. "That's enough of Dr. Carl's cross examination.
You'd think he was a Victorian father who had just been approached for
his daughter's hand. We haven't whispered any news of an engagement to
you, have we, Doc?"
"No, but I'm acting--"
"Sure. _In loco parentis._ We know that."
"You're incorrigible, Pat! I wash my hands of you. Run along, if you're
going out."
"You'll be telling me never to darken my own door again in the next
breath!" She stretched forth a diminutive foot at the extremity of
a superlatively attractive ankle, caught Nick's hat on her toe, and
kicked it expertly to his lap. "Come on, Nick. There's a moon."
"There is not!" objected the Doctor huffily. "It rises at four, as you
ought to know. You didn't see it last night, did you?"
"I didn't notice," said the girl. "Come on, Nick, and we'll watch
it rise tonight. We'll check up on the Doctor's astronomy, or is it
chronology?"
"You do and I'll know it! I can hear you come home, you imp!"
"Nice neighbor," observed Pat airily, as she stepped to the door. "I'll
bet you peek out of the window, too."
She ignored the Doctor's irritated rumble as she passed into the hall,
where Nick, after a diffident murmur of farewell to Horker, followed.
She caught up a light cape, which he draped about her shoulders.
"Nick," she said, "suppose you run out to the car and wait. I think
I've stepped too hard on Dr. Carl's corns, and I want to give him a
little cheering up. Will you?"
"Of course, Pat."
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