‘Deep Thoughts for the Layman,’ so simplified that they are positively guaranteed not to cause thinking.
If my father were alive he would look at you and grunt, Dick.
He would take his napkin and fold it so, and hold his napkin ring, this very one—” he held it up, a boar’s head was carved in the brown wood—“and he would say,
‘Well my impression is—’ then he would look at you and think suddenly
‘What is the use?’ then he would stop and grunt again; then we would be at the end of dinner.”
“I am alone to-day,” said Dick testily.
“But I may not be alone to-morrow.
After that I’ll fold up my napkin like your father and grunt.”
Franz waited a moment.
“How about our patient?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you should know about her by now.”
“I like her.
She’s attractive.
What do you want me to do—take her up in the edelweiss?”
“No, I thought since you go in for scientific books you might have an idea.”
“—devote my life to her?”
Franz called his wife in the kitchen:
“Du lieber Gott!
Bitte, bringe Dick noch ein Glas-Bier.”
“I don’t want any more if I’ve got to see Dohmler.”
“We think it’s best to have a program.
Four weeks have passed away—apparently the girl is in love with you.
That’s not our business if we were in the world, but here in the clinic we have a stake in the matter.”
“I’ll do whatever Doctor Dohmler says,” Dick agreed.
But he had little faith that Dohmler would throw much light on the matter; he himself was the incalculable element involved.
By no conscious volition of his own, the thing had drifted into his hands.
It reminded him of a scene in his childhood when everyone in the house was looking for the lost key to the silver closet, Dick knowing he had hid it under the handkerchiefs in his mother’s top drawer; at that time he had experienced a philosophical detachment, and this was repeated now when he and Franz went together to Professor Dohmler’s office.
The professor, his face beautiful under straight whiskers, like a vine-overgrown veranda of some fine old house, disarmed him.
Dick knew some individuals with more talent, but no person of a class qualitatively superior to Dohmler.
—Six months later he thought the same way when he saw Dohmler dead, the light out on the veranda, the vines of his whiskers tickling his stiff white collar, the many battles that had swayed before the chink-like eyes stilled forever under the frail delicate lids— “. . .
Good morning, sir.”
He stood formally, thrown back to the army.
Professor Dohmler interlaced his tranquil fingers.
Franz spoke in terms half of liaison officer, half of secretary, till his senior cut through him in mid-sentence.
“We have gone a certain way,” he said mildly.
“It’s you, Doctor Diver, who can best help us now.”
Routed out, Dick confessed:
“I’m not so straight on it myself.”
“I have nothing to do with your personal reactions,” said Dohmler.
“But I have much to do with the fact that this so-called ‘transference,’” he darted a short ironic look at Franz which the latter returned in kind, “must be terminated.
Miss Nicole does well indeed, but she is in no condition to survive what she might interpret as a tragedy.”
Again Franz began to speak, but Doctor Dohmler motioned him silent.
“I realize that your position has been difficult.”
“Yes, it has.”
Now the professor sat back and laughed, saying on the last syllable of his laughter, with his sharp little gray eyes shining through:
“Perhaps you have got sentimentally involved yourself.”
Aware that he was being drawn on, Dick, too, laughed.
“She’s a pretty girl—anybody responds to that to a certain extent.
I have no intention—”