"Let me know if I can be of any further assistance, Doctor," he said.
"And I'll be glad to see your patient at any time. I'd like the
record for my files."

"Thank you," David said. He stood fingering his hat.

"I suppose there's nothing to do? The dam will either break, or it
won't."

"That's about it. Of course since the conditions that produced the
setting up of the defensive machinery were unhappy, I'd say that
happiness will play a large part in the situation. That happiness
and a normal occupation will do a great deal to maintain the status
quo. Of course I would advise no return to the unhappy environment,
and no shocks. Nothing, in other words, to break down the wall."

Outside, in the corridor, David remembered to put on his hat.
Happiness and a normal occupation, yes. But no shock.

Nevertheless, he felt vaguely comforted, and as though it had helped
to bring the situation out into the open and discuss it. He had
carried his burden alone for ten years, or with only the additional
weight of Lucy's apprehensions. He wandered out into the city
streets, and found himself, some time later, at the railway station,
without remembering how he got there.

Across from the station was a large billboard, and on it the name
of Beverly Carlysle and her play, "The Valley." He stood for some
time and looked at it, before he went in to buy his ticket. Not
until he was in the train did he realize that he had forgotten to