"Rol would raise hell."
Her dimples showed. "I would try to make certain he never found out about it. My privacy. And I am quoting you, Dr. Wylie! Oh, I could hug you right here and now! And anyway—it isn't so much something you do. It's something to know is unlocked, that's all. When you can—you probably never do; when you can't—you hardly do anything but yearn; and never know for what. You know that—don't you? That's why Gwen—?"
I picked up her hand and looked at the big, square diamond.
"Pin none of your flowers on me, cooky. It was a dangerous prescription. I tried to weasel out of the charge that I'd compounded it. But I did. Mr. Wylie's toxic monologue."
"Mr. Wylie's elixir for the self-righteous."
"America," I said, "is the wrong climate for taking a capsule of that so-called sin and expecting a cure. In some other country—or age—"
"Don't orate today. I couldn't listen." She ate a shrimp. "I wish I knew more about you."
"Me, too." I went on, "Be good to Rol. Remember—these high tides run out. And remember—they always come in again."
"You going?" She said it almost without interest. She didn't need company any more.
I nodded. "The last installment is passing through the chopper. Here's another item, cooky. People who live in greenhouses mustn't cast the first stone."