Ørlygur was moved, and held out his hand.
Then the whisky was brought out, but Ørlygur declined; the doctor poured out a glass for himself. They sat for a while in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.
Ørlygur could not get over his astonishment at meeting Snebiorg in the doctor’s house, and in particular at the news that it was Ormarr who had arranged for her to come. It troubled him, also, that her mother had been willing to let her come at all.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him—here, perhaps, was the solution of it all.
“Trying to make me jealous—that must be it. And not a bad idea. If I had any doubt in my own mind before, this has certainly made an end.”
He glanced at his host, wondering whether he, too, was in the plot. The doctor seemed to perceive that he was being scrutinized.
“Ørlygur,” he said, in a strangely quiet voice, “I wonder what ever made you care about me at all? I’ve had a feeling ever since I’ve known you that you had a sort of liking for me. But, how you ever could, I can’t imagine.”
Ørlygur looked at him a moment, and then glanced away.
“If you want to know,” he said, “it’s not for any one reason in particular, but several. To begin with, you’re alway the same to rich and poor.... Indeed, I’ve heard that you often treat poor people for nothing, and give them medicines into the bargain.”
“That’s nothing,” said the doctor, waving his hand carelessly.