“I’ve never believed the things you’ve told me,” she said. “At first, I thought there was something a little bit—” Her cheeks turned red and she laughed. “But now, I know you’re just a normal man.”
Martin thought of the woman he loved. Deane! He could go to Deane now. There was nothing wrong. He thought of his doctors. Surely they had known. They had left him with that fear—its implication of neuroses and reference to disgusting complexities. How many lay that night, fed with bromides and sedatives; crucified on theories!
In the morning when the psychiatrists returned, Martin raised his head from the pillow.
“Good morning.”
The young doctor nodded his head briefly, blinked his eyes and faced the light from the window, his face expressionless.
“Good morning. Did you sleep?” asked the older physician, in a perfunctory tone.
“Very well indeed,” Martin said. Then sitting up a little straighter, he added, “Doctor! I don’t want to anticipate a diagnosis, but I’m not sick. You understand that I merely gave a history of the fantasies and sublimated desires that are in all our minds, but which we are rarely dyspeptic enough to publicize.”
The older doctor watched him furtively. Martin saw that he resembled a spider, and grinning to himself, thought that there were probably a few cobwebs about him. But in the younger doctor’s eyes he saw concern and liking, and even the faint touch of friendship.
“What do you mean?” asked the older man at last.