"Evening, Nick," Pat was bubbling. The newcomer gave her a hasty smile, with another glance at the Doctor. "Don't mind Dr. Carl," she continued. "Aren't you going to kiss me? It irks the medico, and I never miss a chance." Nicholas flushed in embarrassment; he gestured hesitantly, then placed a hasty peck of a kiss on the girl's forehead. He reddened again at the Doctor's rumble of "Young imp of Satan!" "Not very good," said Pat reflectively, obviously enjoying the situation. "I've known you to do better." She pulled him toward the arch of the living room. "Come meet Dr. Horker. Dr. Carl, this is the aforesaid Nicholas Devine." "Dr. Horker," repeated the lad, smiling diffidently. "You're the psychiatrist and brain specialist, aren't you, Sir?" "So my patients believe," rumbled the massive Doctor, rising at the introduction, and grasping the youth's hand. "And you're the genius Patricia has been raving about. I'm glad to have the chance of looking you over." Nick gave the girl a harassed glance, shifting uncomfortably, and patently at a loss for a reply. She grinned mischievously. "Sit down, both of you," she suggested helpfully. She seized his hat from the reluctant hands of Nick, sailing it carelessly to a chair. "So!" boomed the Doctor, lowering his great bulk again to the davenport. He eyed the youth sitting nervously before him. "Devine, did you say?" "Yes, sir." "I knew a Devine once. Colleague of mine." "A doctor? My father was a doctor." "Dr. Stuart Devine?" "Yes, sir." He paused. "Did you say you knew him, Dr. Horker?" "Slightly," rumbled the other. "Only slightly." "I don't remember him at all, of course, I was very young when he--and my mother too--died." "You must have been. Patricia claims you write." "I try." "What sort of material?" "Why--any sort. Prose or poetry; what I feel like writing." "Whatever inspires you, I suppose?" "Yes, sir." The lad flushed again. "Ever have anything published?" "Yes, sir. In _Nation's Poetry_." "Never heard of it." "It has a large circulation," said Nick apologetically. "Humph! Well, that's something. Whom do you like?" "Whom do I like?" The youth's tone was puzzled. "What authors--writers?" "Oh." He cast another uncomfortable glance at Pat. "Why--I like Baudelaire, and Poe, and Swinburne, and Villon, and--" "Decadents, all of them!" sniffed the Doctor. "What prose writers?" "Well--" He hesitated--"Poe again, and Stern, and Rabelais--" "Rabelais!" Horker's voice boomed. "Well! Your taste can't be as bad as I thought, then. There's one we agree on, anyway. And I notice you name no moderns, which is another good point." "I haven't read many moderns, sir." "That's in your favor." "Cut it!" put in Pat with assumed sharpness. "You've taken enough whacks at my generation for one day." "I'm glad to find one of your generation who agrees with me," chuckled the Doctor. "At least to the extent of not reading its works."