He said: "Here, let me help you." He picked her up and didn't let go.
"Thanks," she said faintly. "The conditioning technique can't be called faulty, but it has inherent limitations...." She trailed off and he kissed her. She kissed back and said more faintly still: "Or it might be the drugs we used.... Oh, Charles, what took you so long?"
He said, brooding: "You're way out of my class, you know. I'm just a bagman for the New York police. I wouldn't even be that if it weren't for Uncle Frank, and you're a Falcaro. It's just barely thinkable that I could make a pass at you. I guess that held me off and I didn't want to admit it so I got mad at you instead. Hell, I could have swum back to the base and made a damned fool of myself trying to find Grinnel, but down inside I knew better. The kid's gone."
"We'll make a psychologist of you yet," she said.
"Psychologist? Why? You're joking."
"No. It's not a joke. You'll like psychology, darling. You can't go on playing polo forever, you know."
Darling! What was he getting into? Old man Gilby was four-goal at sixty, wasn't he? Good God, was he hooked into marriage at twenty-three? Was she married already? Did she know or care whether he was? Had she been promiscuous? Would she continue to be? He'd never know; that was the one thing you never asked; your only comfort, if you needed comfort, was that she could never dream of asking you. What went on here? Let me out!
It went through his mind in a single panicky flash and then he said: "The hell with it," and kissed her again.
She wanted to know: "The hell with what, darling?"
"Everything. Tell me about psychology. I can't go on playing polo forever."