“They said you have a persecution complex,” replied Deane. “They tried to help you.” Her throat was dry and the room was spinning round.
“‘Persecution complex!’” repeated Martin with a contemptuous gesture. “It’s contagious. It’s a disease—an indiscriminate application of words typing an individual, placing him in a box, granting him the elasticity of brick. They are dealing with humanity—not with bricks. What do these rigid intellectualists know definitely, after all? Stumbling about in the most infantile science of the lot. A befuddled group of astrologers of the mind. The more competent admit they know little—admit that while they do the best they can, that often they must strike out blindly, hoping that nature will effect a cure.”
Deane’s eyes did not change; but the delicate lids, with their heavy lashes, gave a sudden, nervous flicker. What was this perspiring man talking about? She still felt sick. He didn’t have on a shirt. If she could only rest. She knew that her mind was bleeding. Each of Martin’s words opened a new point in her brain.
“They are dangerous because they are clever,” he went on. “And some of them are diabolical. Theirs is a subtle lechery. They love this parade of erotics. Orgasms by proxy! Intelligent, perverted and ruthless!”
Deane now looked steadily at him. The ice locking her mind moved restlessly.
“They do good, Martin. Not everyone plays with love and pain the way you do.”
“Let me rest, Deane. I want to rest.” He leaned for a moment against the divan and then got up. “You’re the only one I care about,” he said wearily. “Can these ponderous technicians, with their burden of world-pain give you happiness? Can you let their hard lines of conduct, which apply to the diseased, disturb our concept of life? Top-heavy and non-elastic—surely they cannot appeal to your ideas!”
Deane knew that he was splendid in his agony. She wanted to kiss his cheeks. She wanted to forget his tiredness, his indictment of psychiatry. She felt that his imaginings were unfair; untrue; those of a sick man. She knew that he had talked bravely and fought desperately for her. She felt all these things. But she stood up and turned away.
Martin knew. He put on his coat and smiled at her. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. Instead, he left the apartment.