I waited.
Dr. Adams was late. The charred cigarettes piled up.
At last, he phoned from the lobby.
Come up.
One of those psychiatrists about whom interviewers write:
... nothing of the abnormal about him; he would be mistaken anywhere for a successful businessman....
Because Dr. Adams took considerable pains to look exactly like a successful American businessman who would be mistaken anywhere.
dark, chalk-striped suit, polished brown brogues, foulard tie, fifty-one years old, seventy-one inches high, a hundred and seventy-one pounds, heavy horn-rims in his breast pocket with the Parker 51, smoothly brushed iron-gray hair, smoothly brushed iron-gray eyebrows, smoothly unbrushed iron-gray eyes, the outdoor complexion that is imperative for indoor men of distinction, and the prize already awarded for filling in the last line of the limerick:
Healthy, wealthy and wise.
You couldn't help liking him if you tried, and believe me, I tried. I tried because Adams (Hargrave H.P.) was the head of the private hospital where Dave had sent Paul and I wouldn't have one of those top-notch third-rate psychiatrists fooling with my nephew.