“I wish you’d tell me what ails you?” he blurted out one evening, as the two sat together in the twilight.
“About what?” the doctor inquired. “If I knew, I might even risk my own medicine to get over it.”
“Don’t joke, Horace Carey, not with a frail invalid. I’ve tried all day to talk to you about my neighbors and you turn the subject away as if it was of no consequence, and now, tonight, you settle down and say, ‘Tell me about the Aydelots.’ Why do you want to hear in the dark what you won’t listen to in the daylight?” 83
“Oh, you are a sick man, Jim, or you wouldn’t be so silly,” the doctor replied, “but to please you, I’ll tell you the truth. I’m homesick.”
“Yes?”
“And this Mrs. Aydelot was a Virginia woman.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m a true son of Virginia, and I thought it might make me happy to hear about somebody from—”
“You are a magnificent liar,” Jim broke in.
“Evidently it’s better to have you talk about your neighbors than your medical advisor tonight,” Carey retorted.