"I know what you mean."
He prowled on, came to the piano, set his drink on it, and sat down. His fingers rippled over the keys, idly and aimlessly, and then crept into the refrain of September Song.
She sat on the couch, looking at him, with her own glass in her hand.
He finished abruptly, picked up his drink again, and crossed the room to sit down beside her.
"What do you know about Zellermann?" he asked.
"Nothing much. He's one of these Park Avenue medicinemen. I think he's supposed to be a refugee from Vienna — he got out just before the Nazis moved in. But he didn't lose much. As a matter of fact, he made quite a big hit around here. I haven't been to his office, but I'm told it looks like something off a Hollywood set. His appointment book looks like a page out of the Social Register, and there's a beautifully carved blonde nurse-receptionist who'd probably give most of his male patients a complex if they didn't have any to start with. He's got a private sanitarium in Connecticut, too, which is supposed to be quite a place. The inmates get rid of their inhibitions by doing exactly what they please and then paying for any special damage."
"You mean if they have a secret craving to tear the clothes off a nurse or throw a plate of soup at a waiter, they can be accommodated — at a fancy tariff."
"Something like that, I guess. Dr. Zellermann says that all mental troubles come from people being thwarted by some convention that doesn't agree with their particular personality. So the cure is to take the restriction away — like taking a tight shoe off a corn. He says that everyone ought to do just what their instincts and impulses tell them, and then everything would be lovely.
"I notice he wasn't repressing any of his impulses," Simon remarked.
The girl shrugged.