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ourse I did." He sat up. "I just thought while we were at it--"

"You would seduce me," I finished.

"Oh, come on. Don't get melodramatic. I merely saw that you have a problem."

"I don't have any problem." I backed farther away from him.

He pulled himself onto the settee and sat there smiling at me. "I think you do."

"How many other girls have you tempted up here using the same phony excuse?" I accused. "You're the one with the problem."

"Are you sure? Really sure? You wanted it for a few moments there, and then your frigidity took control. If you'll only give me a chance," he

continued, reaching toward me.

I stepped back again. "Don't touch me!" I cried and grappled for the doorknob.

He pulled his hand back and smiled. "Okay, okay. You don't have to leave. I won't try to help you, if you don't want my help. A patient has to want the doctor's help."

"I'm not a patient and you're . . . you're no doctor!" I screamed and pulled open the door.

"If you change your mind, I'll be here," he cried after me.

I slammed the door behind me and flew down the steps, tears streaming down my cheeks as I charged across the lobby and burst out of the building, nearly knocking an elderly woman over in the process. I apologized and hurried away, nearly running now to catch the next streetcar. Right behind me, Jack Weller's smile and laughter lingered. It wasn't until I was almost home that I felt my heartbeat slow to a normal pace. I wiped away the streaks on my cheeks, took a deep breath, and stepped off the streetcar.

When I entered the house, I paused and leaned back against the front door, hoping to regain all of my composure; but something inside me, something that felt as dainty as china, was shattered and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't mend it. A doctor, as young as he was, had tried to deceive me. A member of the profession I idolized had filled me with disappointment and disgust. How could anyone study and work to be a doctor and then do what Jack Weller had done? How could he care about other people, their feelings, their pain, their suffering?

Mommy stepped out of the sitting room and stopped, surprised to see me standing there so quietly. "Pearl? I didn't hear the door open and close.

Where's Aubrey?" she asked gazing around.

"I let myself in quickly, Mommy." I flashed a smile.

"I thought you would be coming home much later," she said stepping toward me.

"No, it didn't work out."

"So you didn't have any supper?" she asked. Her eyes, those Cajun searchlights, as Daddy sometimes called them, examined my face, gathering clues. I had to look away.

"I'm not that hungry yet.I'll eat something later," I said and flashed another quick smile before heading for the stairway.

"Pearl?"

"Yes, Mommy?"

She looked back toward the doorway of the sitting room. I realized Daddy was there, but hadn't heard our conversation; otherwise he would have surely come out to see me.

"Something's wrong. What is it, honey?"

My lips trembled. Tears burned behind my eyelids, then trickled down my cheeks. I shook my head and ran up the stairway. I hurried to my bedroom and fell face down on my bed, gulping back my sobs.

Moments later Mommy was there. She closed the door softly behind her, and I turned around. "What happened?" she asked firmly.

"Oh, Mommy. It wasn't something special."

"He didn't invite you up to his apartment to study as he had said," she remarked, nodding.

"No. We started to study, but he had chosen the topic as part of his elaborate plan to . . ."