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. He said he'd always wanted to meet me and I said I'd never heard of him and he laughed because he was amused, not because he laughed when he didn't know what else to do, like an American businessman. He sat down in one of my chairs and refused a drink and said, "Tell me all you think I ought to know about Paul." Three hours and several hundred questions later he left. Paul was going to be all right. Not soon--but someday when he'd learned the masochisms, sadisms, castration complexes, repressed homosexual feelings, mistaken anima identification, archetypal possessions, and other data not shown by the meters in his laboratory. Hargrave H.P. Adams had plenty of what it would take. I wouldn't have minded asking him some of my own questions. He had come up with a few suggestions and formulations unknown to me.... That brought the evening up past midnight. I felt wretched. You are apt to, when you think they're going to stand you against the stone wall the next morning. There were, of course, Tom's pills. I rolled them out in my hand and just looking at them gave me a fuzzy taste in my mouth so I rolled them back. It was one to think yourself out of. I went into the living room and climbed through the window and peered down into the glittering slot of Madison Avenue until, all of a sudden, I began to shake. I almost threw up before I could scramble back into the apartment. I sat down and stared at the sky. You could still see a few stars in the haze. The night was as close as a pressure cooker. My nausea left slowly; my shakes subsided. In states of this sort I usually try, if possible, to make a list of Things to Do. Things to Do on Sunday Night in the Big City, after the witching hour.