The cynical words on my lips remained unuttered. He was tall, and if his clothes had fitted him he might have presented a better figure. I hate a morning coat in tweed material. The adjective “uncouth” stuck. I saw it was a clever head under the thick mane of black hair, and wondered at his tactlessness and provincial garrulity. I nevertheless found myself not entirely uninterested in him. “Do you mind my talking about her? Incandescent! I think that word describes her best. She burned from the inside, was strung on wires, and they were all alight. She was always sitting just where you are now, or upstairs at the piano. She was a wonderful pianist. Have you been upstairs, into the room she turned into a music room?” “As I told you, I have only been here an hour. This is the only room I have seen.” My tone must have struck him as wanting in cordiality, or interest. “You didn’t want me to come up tonight?” He looked through his pocketbook for Ella’s letter, found it, and began to read, half aloud. How well I knew what Ella would have said to him. “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.” He smiled. He had a good set of teeth, and his smile was pleasant. “You’ve got a nurse, or a maid?” “A maid. I’m not ill enough for nurses.” “Good. Did you know this was once a nursing-home? After she found that out she could never bear the place....” He was talking again about the former occupant of the house. My ailment had not held his attention long.