The doctor's gloomy face seemed darker still.

"You have spoken the truth, Mr. Fentolin," he admitted. "You are
not one of the vulgar herd who love to consort with pleasure and
happiness. You are one of those who understand the beauty of
unhappiness--in others," he added, with faint emphasis.

Mr. Fentolin smiled. His face became almost like the face of one
of those angels of the great Italian master.

"How well you know me!" he murmured. "My humble effort, Doctor
--how do you like it?"

The doctor bent over the canvas.

"I know nothing about art," he said, a little roughly. "Your work
seems to me clever--a little grotesque, perhaps; a little straining
after the hard, plain things which threaten. Nothing of the
idealist in your work, Mr. Fentolin."

Mr. Fentolin studied the canvas himself for a moment.

"A clever man, Sarson," he remarked coolly, "but no courtier. Never
mind, my work pleases me. It gives me a passing sensation of
happiness. Now, what about our patient?"

"He recovers," the doctor pronounced. "From my short examination,
I should say that he had the constitution of an ox. I have told
him that he will be up in three days. As a matter of fact, he will
be able, if he wants to, to walk out of the house to-morrow."