The doctor was looking at me, and not at the painting there. A little bit of confusion came,--I don't know why.
"Do you like it?" I ventured.
"I like it? I'm not the one to like it."
"Somebody does, then?"
"Of course. What did he paint it for, if he didn't like it?"
"I do not know of whom you are talking, at all," I said, a little vexed at this information-no-information style.
"You don't?" in a voice of the utmost astonishment.
"No. Is this all, for the sick lady? I think I ought to go to her."
"Of course you ought. It's a sad thing, this death in the house"; and Doctor Eaton picked up his hat, and opened the door.
Kate was waiting in the hall.