The doctor was in high spirits. He talked about the Japanese and
Russians, the most recently discovered rays, and the latest
disclosures on how is felt to die.

My favourite pastime is to listen to others speaking. I never seem
able to think of any topics worthy of conversation myself, but I am
almost inclined to say that my ability to listen amounts to an art.
I can remain silent with an air of absorbing interest, and once in a
while offer brief comment, not to set forth an opinion or display
any knowledge--for I have none to spare--but merely to suggest new
channels to the speaker and introduce variety, that he may not tire
of hearing himself speak.

I felt extremely comfortable on the couch. I thought it particularly
entertaining to hear the doctor tell how it felt to die. There is
always something pleasantly exciting about death--when it is
reasonably far away from you. It seemed so beautifully far away from
the perfume of the tobacco-smoke, the flavour of whisky, and the
restfulness of the couch, and when my mind wandered to her across
the fjord--as wander it would in spite of my studied attention--then
death seemed so far off shore that I could scarcely follow the
description of how it felt to others to die.

In the midst of this dreamy contentment and deluge of information
from the doctor, the door was somewhat hastily thrown open. I was
looking the other way and thought it must be one of the doctor's
children.

But it was old man Thordur from the Bend.