He was certain that the
local practitioner did not know anything about his trade, and more
certain that Maisie would laugh at him if he were forced to wear
spectacles.
local practitioner did not know anything about his trade, and more
certain that Maisie would laugh at him if he were forced to wear
spectacles.
Kipling - Poems
"
Dick smiled wearily. It is not pleasant to live in the company of a
notion that will not work out, a fox-terrier that cannot talk, and a
woman who talks too much. He would have answered, but at that moment
there unrolled itself from one corner of the studio a veil, as it were,
of the flimsiest gauze. He rubbed his eyes, but the gray haze would not
go.
"This is disgraceful indigestion. Binkie, we will go to a medicine-man.
We can't have our eyes interfered with, for by these we get our bread;
also mutton-chop bones for little dogs. "
The doctor was an affable local practitioner with white hair, and he
said nothing till Dick began to describe the gray film in the studio.
"We all want a little patching and repairing from time to time," he
chirped. "Like a ship, my dear sir,--exactly like a ship. Sometimes the
hull is out of order, and we consult the surgeon; sometimes the
rigging, and then I advise; sometimes the engines, and we go to the
brain-specialist; sometimes the look-out on the bridge is tired, and
then we see an oculist. I should recommend you to see an oculist. A
little patching and repairing from time to time is all we want. An
oculist, by all means. "
Dick sought an oculist,--the best in London.
He was certain that the
local practitioner did not know anything about his trade, and more
certain that Maisie would laugh at him if he were forced to wear
spectacles.
"I've neglected the warnings of my lord the stomach too long. Hence
these spots before the eyes, Binkie. I can see as well as I ever could. "
As he entered the dark hall that led to the consulting-room a man
cannoned against him. Dick saw the face as it hurried out into the
street.
"That's the writer-type. He has the same modelling of the forehead as
Torp. He looks very sick. Probably heard something he didn't like. "
Even as he thought, a great fear came upon Dick, a fear that made him
hold his breath as he walked into the oculist's waiting room, with the
heavy carved furniture, the dark-green paper, and the sober-hued prints
on the wall. He recognised a reproduction of one of his own sketches.
Many people were waiting their turn before him. His eye was caught by a
flaming red-and-gold Christmas-carol book. Little children came to that
eye-doctor, and they needed large-type amusement.
"That's idolatrous bad Art," he said, drawing the book towards himself.
Dick smiled wearily. It is not pleasant to live in the company of a
notion that will not work out, a fox-terrier that cannot talk, and a
woman who talks too much. He would have answered, but at that moment
there unrolled itself from one corner of the studio a veil, as it were,
of the flimsiest gauze. He rubbed his eyes, but the gray haze would not
go.
"This is disgraceful indigestion. Binkie, we will go to a medicine-man.
We can't have our eyes interfered with, for by these we get our bread;
also mutton-chop bones for little dogs. "
The doctor was an affable local practitioner with white hair, and he
said nothing till Dick began to describe the gray film in the studio.
"We all want a little patching and repairing from time to time," he
chirped. "Like a ship, my dear sir,--exactly like a ship. Sometimes the
hull is out of order, and we consult the surgeon; sometimes the
rigging, and then I advise; sometimes the engines, and we go to the
brain-specialist; sometimes the look-out on the bridge is tired, and
then we see an oculist. I should recommend you to see an oculist. A
little patching and repairing from time to time is all we want. An
oculist, by all means. "
Dick sought an oculist,--the best in London.
He was certain that the
local practitioner did not know anything about his trade, and more
certain that Maisie would laugh at him if he were forced to wear
spectacles.
"I've neglected the warnings of my lord the stomach too long. Hence
these spots before the eyes, Binkie. I can see as well as I ever could. "
As he entered the dark hall that led to the consulting-room a man
cannoned against him. Dick saw the face as it hurried out into the
street.
"That's the writer-type. He has the same modelling of the forehead as
Torp. He looks very sick. Probably heard something he didn't like. "
Even as he thought, a great fear came upon Dick, a fear that made him
hold his breath as he walked into the oculist's waiting room, with the
heavy carved furniture, the dark-green paper, and the sober-hued prints
on the wall. He recognised a reproduction of one of his own sketches.
Many people were waiting their turn before him. His eye was caught by a
flaming red-and-gold Christmas-carol book. Little children came to that
eye-doctor, and they needed large-type amusement.
"That's idolatrous bad Art," he said, drawing the book towards himself.
