"Well, I'm sure I don't mind," observed Pat. "We've a dog and a canary bird, too." "You're in fine fettle this afternoon!" laughed her companion. "Must've been a successful date last night." "It was." Her eyes turned suddenly dreamy. "You're in love again, Pat!" he accused. "Again? Why the 'again'?" "Well, there was Billy, and that Paul--" "Oh, those!" Her tone was contemptuous. "Merely passing fancies, Doc. Just whims, dreams of the moment--in other words, puppy love." "And this? I suppose this is different--a grand passion?" "I don't know," she said, frowning abruptly. "He's nice, but--odd. Attractive as--well, as the devil." "Odd? How?" "Oh, he's one of those minds you think we moderns lack." "Intellectual, eh? New variety for you; out of the usual run of your dancing collegiates. I've often suspected that you picked your swains by the length and lowness of their cars." "Maybe I did. That was one of the chief differences between them." "How'd you meet this mental paragon?" "Billy Fields dragged him around to one of those literary evenings he affects--where they read Oscar Wilde and Eugene O'Neil aloud. Bill met him at the library." "And he out-shone all the local lights, I perceive." "He surely did!" retorted Pat. "And he hardly said a word the whole evening." "He wouldn't have to, if they're all like Billy! What's this prodigy's specialty?" "He writes. I think--laugh if you want to!--I think perhaps he's a genius." "Well," said Doctor Horker, "even that's possible. It's been known to occur, but rarely, to my knowledge, in your generation." "Oh, we're just dimmed by the glare of brilliance from yours." She swung her legs to the floor, facing the Doctor. "Do you psychiatrists actually _know_ anything about love?" she queried. "We're supposed to." "What is it, then?" "Just a device of Nature's for perpetuating the species. Some organisms manage without it, and do pretty well." "Yes. I've heard references to the poor fish!" "Then they're inaccurate; fish have primitive symptoms of eroticism. But below the vertebrates, notably in the amoeba, I don't recall any amorous habits." "Then your definition doesn't explain a thing, does it?" "Not to one of the victims, perhaps." "Anyway," said Pat decisively, "I've heard of the old biological urge before your kind analysis. It doesn't begin to explain why one should be attracted to this person and repelled by that one. Does it?" "No, but Freud does. The famous Oedipus Complex." "That's the love of son for mother, or daughter for father, isn't it? And I don't see how that clears up anything; for example, I can just barely remember my father."