A man who seemed in his middle twenties looked up from a desk. He smiled and gestured toward two adjoining chairs. "Well--well." "Doctor Hortel, I--" The doctor snapped his fingers. "Of course, I know. Your daughter. Ha ha, I certainly do know your trouble. Get so many of them nowadays--takes up most of my time." "You do?" asked Mrs. Cuberle. "Frankly, it had begun to upset me." "Upset? Hmm. Not good. Not good at all. Ah, but then--if people did not get upset, we psychiatrists would be out of a job, eh? Go the way of the early M. D. But, I assure you, I need hear no more." He turned his handsome face to Mary. "Little girl, how old are you?" "Eighteen, sir." "Oh, a real bit of impatience. It's just about time, of course. What might your name be?" "Mary." "Charming! And so unusual. Well now, Mary, may I say that I understand your problem--understand it thoroughly?" Mrs. Cuberle smiled and smoothed the sequins on her blouse. "Madam, you have no idea how many there are these days. Sometimes it preys on their minds so that it affects them physically, even mentally. Makes them act strange, say peculiar, unexpected things. One little girl I recall was so distraught she did nothing but brood all day long. Can you imagine!" "That's what Mary does. When she finally told me, doctor, I thought she had gone--_you_ know." "That bad, eh? Afraid we'll have to start a re-education program, very soon, or they'll all be like this. I believe I'll suggest it to the senator day after tomorrow." "I don't quite understand, doctor." "Simply, Mrs. Cuberle, that the children have got to be thoroughly instructed. Thoroughly. Too much is taken for granted and childish minds somehow refuse to accept things without definite reason. Children have become far too intellectual, which, as I trust I needn't remind you, is a dangerous thing." "Yes, but what has this to do with--" "With Mary? Everything, of course. Mary, like half the sixteen, seventeen and eighteen year olds today, has begun to feel acutely self-conscious. She feels that her body has developed sufficiently for the Transformation--which of course it has not, not quite yet--and she cannot understand the complex reasons that compel her to wait until some future date. Mary looks at you, at the women all about her, at the pictures, and then she looks into a mirror. From pure perfection of body, face, limbs, pigmentation, carriage, stance, from simon-pure perfection, if I may be allowed the expression, she sees herself and is horrified. Isn't that so, my dear child? Of course--of course. She asks herself, why must I be hideous, unbalanced, oversize, undersize, full of revolting skin eruptions, badly schemed organically? In short, Mary is tired of being a monster and is overly anxious to achieve what almost everyone else has already achieved." "But--" said Mrs. Cuberle.