Walter did not understand that the doctor was giving him a dose of medicine; but he saw that the time for explanations had not yet arrived. Still he would have felt better if he could have unburdened his mind of at least a part of those persistent memories of last night. His instinct of chivalry would have prevented him from mentioning the details of the Laps affair, which, after all, had only been an ineffective attack.
He began again; but the doctor interrupted him before he had hardly mentioned the fried potatoes.
“Yes, such things happen to everybody. That doesn’t amount to anything. The thing for young people to do—and for old people, too—is to work. It seems to be rather windy.”
That was true. If it had only been as windy yesterday.
“Do you like pictures?” asked Holsma, when they had left the carriage and were entering his home.
“Of course!”
“Good! Just go into that room. Look at everything as long as you please.”
The doctor pushed him into the room, then ran through the hall and up the stairs to prepare the family for Walter’s reception.
Walter found little pleasure in paintings. He had had no training in art. For him, a man with a dog and a hare was merely a man with a dog and a hare. He felt that a poem ought to have been written about it all; then it would have been intelligible. His glance fell on the portrait of a woman, or a queen, or a fairy, or a mayor’s daughter.