looked directly at me, instead of gazing about him reminiscently.
"I don't know. I did my best. When she was in pain I stopped it . . . sometimes. She did not always like the medicines I prescribed. And you? You are suffering from neuritis, your sister says. That may mean anything. Where is it?"
"In my legs."
I did not mean him to attend me; I had come away to rid myself of doctors. And anyway I liked an older man in a professional capacity. But his eccentricity of manner or deportment, his want of interest in me and absorption in his former patient, his ill-cut clothes and unlikeness to his brother professionals, were a little variety, and I found myself answering his questions.
"Have you tried Kasemol? It is a Japanese cure very efficacious; or any other paint? "
"I am no artist."
He smiled. He had a good set of teeth, and his smile was pleasant.
"You've got a nurse, or a maid?"
"A maid. I'm not ill enough for nurses."
"Good. Did you know this was once a nursing-home? After she found that out she could never bear the place . . ."
He was talking again about the former occupant of the house. My ailment had not held his attention long.
