“Hand him an envelope with a hundred-franc note in it, and let nature do the rest,” said the practical-minded baroness.
So Mrs. Budd telephoned and asked for an hour or two of the valuable time of Dr. Bauer-Siemans, and took Lanny with her and left him in the outer office while she told about the baron, and then the gigolo.
The psychoanalyst was a learned-looking gentleman having a high forehead topped with black wavy hair, and gold pince-nez which he took off now and then and used in making gestures. He spoke English with a not too heavy accent. “But why don't you talk to the boy yourself, Mrs. Budd?” he demanded.
More blood mounted to Beauty's already well-suffused cheeks. “I just can't, Doctor. I've tried, but I can't speak the words.”
“You are an American?” he inquired.
“I am the daughter of a Baptist minister in New England.”
“Ah, I see. Puritanism!” Dr. Bauer-Siemans said it as if it were “poliomyelitis” or “Addison's disease.”
“It seems to be ingrained,” said Beauty, lowering her lovely blue eyes.
“The purpose of psychoanalysis is to bring such repressions to the surface of consciousness, Mrs. Budd. So we get rid of them and acquire normal attitudes.”
“What I want is for you to talk to Lanny,” said the mother, hastily. “I would like you to consider it a professional matter, please.” She handed over a scented envelope, not sealed but with the flap tucked in.