THE TERRACE
657
"On the terrace," replied the director, at the same time
bowing to another guest.
The director's profile had something about it that suggested
certain fishing birds. As the elevator stopped the doors opened
quietly. They entered a corridor like the one on the ground floor.
Arner remarked that he knew the name of one of the patients:
Matilda Strolheim. He had been a friend of her husband, an
aviator who made a reputation for himself during the Second
World War. He still flew in jet planes now and then. He was
quite rich, Strolheim. Thinking of the aviator's wealth, Arner
asked himself if it would not be a good thing to invest Miss
Slingsby's money in air transport stock.
As
he looked toward the terrace he heard the director say:
"Yes, Matilda Strolheim. You see? The party is outdoors, so
people can smoke. But," he added, "I don't have much faith
in
such things."
The terrace was spacious and above the balustrade was a
grating supporting a heavy wire mesh. In a whisper Arner asked
if all the women there were insane and the director replied:
"In any case, only those who are tranquil may come to the
party, don't worry."
"No, I'm not worried," Arner hastened to say.
"And don't use the word
insane
here. They are not insane,
they are ill."
Everything seemed natural and with no signs of violence.
Only the silence was extraordinary as if they were in a temple.
Suddenly music broke the silence and lightened the atmosphere.
Afraid of their own nerves the patients lowered their voices. The
men imitated them, unconsciously. They were townspeople who
had been carefully chosen before receiving invitations.
"They say that you psychiatrists are slightly abnormal too,"
ventured Arner. "Is this so?"
"Yes," laughed the doctor. "Choosing this profession would
seem to
be
an indication."
"A symptom?"
