Then he rolled himself a cigarette and felt in a better humour.
"Now, where is the Red One?" he asked.
"He is in the house, painting. I have not told him you were
coming. Go in and see him."
"But what does he complain of? If he is well enough to paint,
he is well enough to have come down to Taravao and save me
this confounded walk. I presume my time is no less valuable
than his."
Ata did not speak, but with the boy followed him to the house.
The girl who had brought him was by this time sitting on the
verandah, and here was lying an old woman, with her back to
the wall, making native cigarettes. Ata pointed to the door.
The doctor, wondering irritably why they behaved so strangely,
entered, and there found Strickland cleaning his palette.
There was a picture on the easel. Strickland, clad only in a
, was standing with his back to the door, but he
turned round when he heard the sound of boots. He gave the
doctor a look of vexation. He was surprised to see him, and
resented the intrusion. But the doctor gave a gasp, he was
rooted to the floor, and he stared with all his eyes.
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