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wills,” said Placide. “And the power of the heart.”
    “For what purpose?”
    “To collect and act on loving thoughts.”
    There was a pause.
    “That is all very well,” said the doctor. “But insofar as marital congress is concerned…”
    “We have always practiced a conscious conservation of creative energy.” Placide was earnest. “It has had the most exciting effect on my artistic output!”
    “I see.” The doctor seemed to be taking notes. “Is procreation possible through the marital relationship?”
    “It is not wished,” said Placide with quiet assurance.
    “Well then,” the doctor tried again, “is the congress satisfactory?”
    “We have attained a marvelous level of mutual reciprocity,” said Placide. “And now, if I may excuse myself.”
    “Not just yet.”
    I could tell the doctor was not only losing patience but running out of circumlocutions.
    “I must inquire, Mrs. Mauser, does the practice of Karezza require the partakees to suppress emission?”
    “Yes,” said Placide, rather strongly, “there is no crisis!”
    “No propagative crisis,” said the doctor, making certain.
    Placide must have nodded or made some sign, for she gave no verbal answer.
    “Then my diagnosis is confirmed.” The doctor’s tone was rather grim. “The frustration of your husband’s natural discharge has resulted, I must say, in the most bitter penalty. Sit down, Mrs. Mauser. You will hear me!”
    I heard the chair creak.
    “In the beginning,” said the doctor, “your husband’s dulled eye, his sallow countenance, drawn features, and pained air of melancholy, as well as his insistence on social isolation, caused me to suspect that he suffered from one of the secret diseases.”
    I gasped, rather loudly, and Placide said nervously, “What was that?”
    “A secret disease,” repeated Dr. Fulmer, mistaking her suspicion for ignorance. “If I must be completely direct, so be it. I suspected the masked pestilence!”
    But Placide must have still affected that blank sweetness one finds so frustrating.
    “Gonorrhea!” he practically yelled. My glass shook and I believe I flushed to the roots of my hair. The doctor forged on. “His previous doctor must have suspected the same. For that reason, the patient was prescribed a diet absent of ales or malt liquors, coffee, salt meats, intense seasoning, and asparagus.”
    “He was given no asparagus,” said Placide, meek now.
    “For Chordee, which he suffered at night, he was of course advised to place his posterior against a cold wall.”
    “He did that,” said Placide, “as far as I know.”
    “His manservant also assisted in his nightly treatments.”
    Placide must again have looked stupefied.
    “Prolonged immersion of the”—here Dr. Fulmer struggled, but used the words—“male sexual member in hot water. I believe it was of some benefit. But when your husband did not respond to my colleague’s satisfaction, he was prescribed urethral injections of sulfate of zinc. Mrs. Mauser, those treatments had little or no effect. For that reason, I conducted today’s frank interview, which enlightened me to the extent that I have changed the diagnosis. Mrs. Mauser…” The doctor paused dramatically. “Your husband suffers from a locomotor ataxia and melancholic neuralgia complicated by a rare male chlorosis, all brought on by a damming of the sperm!”
    “Oh!” Placide sounded quite shocked.
    “Where do you think it goes?” asked Dr. Fulmer, rather savagely. I pictured him leaning forward, into Placide’s face, and tapping his head, “To the brain! To the brain!”
    “I’ve heard enough.” Placide threw herself toward the door. Her heels skittered on the polished parquet. I quickly set my glass on the table and retreated to a chair, opened some book and pretended for some time to read, at first because I feared one of the two might enter and find me. But their steps retreated down the hall. As I mulled over what I had learned, I remained