“And that’s what I admire about Dr. Levin,” Dorothy was saying. Hamilton did not remember what had led to this remark.
“You admire—” he groped.
“Yes, I admire his sex unconsciousness,” she repeated. “He treats me, not exactly like a man, but like an intellectual equal.”
The idea amused Hamilton.
“And what do you talk about?” he asked.
“Oh, we discuss things. Just as two men would. Politics, sociology, literature, art.”
Hamilton laughed.
“Just as two men. You mean just as two Dr. Levins. When two men get together they talk—well, where I come from, they’d probably talk about hunting, or the cotton crop, or baseball or what would have happened if it hadn’t been for the war—that is, the Civil War. I called Dr. Levin when I came in, but they told me—”
“Yes, he’s gone for about two days to visit a sister. Oh, yes, and we even discuss such things as intermarriage.”
“That’s a rather dangerous subject, isn’t it?” he asked. His mind went back once more to McCall, who was a Catholic. Still this, too, was probably only part of their intellectual conversation. It was probably impersonal.