I did.
"She's married. Lives in Troy. Comes to see me once in a while. Lovely girl. And—Charmaine? The president of an oil company moved her onto Park Avenue—died—and left her his heap. Millions. She's a good customer of mine. You know, Kinsey should interview me before he writes more books."
Kinsey again.
"Why don't you drop him a note? Volunteer?"
Hattie's face wrinkled with amusement. "I wouldn't want to shock the poor man."
I laughed.
Her brows came together. They were ordinarily straight and level, red once, black now—like a crayon mark made with a ruler. She still had good-looking amber eyes, fiery but steady, and her forehead was very high. She was beginning to look like some sort of sachem—a tribal wiseman, or a poet. Quite an impressive dame.
"It's funny," she said. "I've even heard men right in these rooms argue that Kinsey was a liar and crazy and incompetent and a menace to society. Otherwise bright men. Heard them say that Kinsey only talked to screwballs and neurotics and people who were inventing stuff to show off. You'd hardly believe such self-kidding was possible!"
"They said it about psychiatrists and psychoanalysts, too," I agreed. "Said that their conclusions were obviously nutty because they never saw anybody but nutty patients. Never stopped to reflect that a neurotic is not a nut, that every patient did his best to tell the precise, detailed truth about his private life, and that every single one of those stories involved the sex behavior of many, many other people who are called normal. I mean—the psychologists learned a whole hell of a lot about what normal people did from every neurotic patient. So when they talked about sex—they had the dope. Most people never thought of that angle."
"Most people," Hattie said, "never think. And when it comes to sex, they think about ten times less than never."