“She has taken ‘Carbies’; call upon her at once ... let me know what you think ... don’t be misled by her high spirits....” He read it half aloud and half to himself. He seemed to expect my sympathy. “I used to come here so often, two or three times a day sometimes.”
“Was she ill?” The question was involuntary. Margaret Capel was nothing to me.
“Part of the time. Most of the time.”
“Did you do her any good?”
Apparently he had no great sense or sensitiveness of professional dignity. There was a strange light in his eyes, brilliant yet fitful, conjured up by the question. It was the first time he seemed to recognize my existence as a separate entity. He 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.”