A man who seemed in his middle twenties looked up from a desk. He smiled and gestured toward two adjoining chairs.
"Well—well."
"Doctor Hortel, I—"
THE doctor snapped his fingers.
"Of course, I know. Your daughter. Ha ha, I certainly do know your trouble. Get so many of them nowadays—takes up most of my time."
"You do?" asked Mrs. Cuberle. "Frankly, it had begun to upset me."
"Upset? Hmm. Not good. Not good at all. Ah, but then—if people did not get upset, we psychiatrists would be out of a job, eh? Go the way of the early M. D. But, I assure you, I need hear no more." He turned his handsome face to Mary. "Little girl, how old are you?"
"Eighteen, sir."
"Oh, a real bit of impatience. It's just about time, of course. What might your name be?"