“You stay here.
Don’t want you with me.”
“I don’t want to go with you,” said Ben surlily.
“I’ve got troubles enough of my own.”
Eugene followed McGuire’s burly figure into the office; McGuire closed the door, and sat down heavily at his littered desk.
“Sit down, son,” he commanded, “and tell me about it.”
He lit a cigarette and stuck it deftly on his sag wet lip. He glanced keenly at the boy, noting his contorted face.
“Take your time, son,” he said kindly, “and control yourself.
Whatever it is, it’s probably not as bad as you think.”
“It was this way,” Eugene began in a low voice.
“I’ve made a mistake.
I know that. I’m willing to take my medicine.
I’m not making any excuses for what has happened,” his voice rose sharply; he got half-way out of his chair, and began to pound fiercely upon the untidy desk.
“I’m putting the blame on no one.
Do you understand that?”
McGuire turned a bloated bewildered face slowly upon his patient.
His wet cigarette sagged comically from his half-opened mouth.
“Do I understand what?” he said.
“See here, ‘Gene: what the hell are you driving at?
I’m no Sherlock Holmes, you know.
I’m your doctor.
Spit it out.”
“What I’ve done,” he said dramatically, “thousands have done.
Oh, I know they may pretend not to.
But they do!
You’re a doctor — you know that.
People high-up in society, too.
I’m one of the unlucky ones.
I got caught.
Why am I any worse than they are?
Why —” he continued rhetorically.
“I think I catch your drift,” said McGuire dryly.
“Let’s have a look, son.”
Eugene obeyed feverishly, still declaiming.
“Why should I bear the stigma for what others get away with?
Hypocrites — a crowd of damned, dirty, whining hypocrites, that’s what they are.
The Double–Standard!
Hah!
Where’s the justice, where’s the honor of that?
Why should I be blamed for what people in High Society —”
McGuire lifted his big head from its critical stare, and barked comically.
“Who’s blaming you?
You don’t think you’re the first one who ever had this sort of trouble, do you?
There’s nothing wrong with you, anyway.”
“Can — can you cure me?” Eugene asked.
“No.
You’re incurable, son!” said McGuire.
He scrawled a few hieroglyphics on a prescription pad.
“Give this to the druggist,” he said, “and be a little more careful hereafter of the company you keep.
People in High Society, eh?” he grinned.