“What do you suppose, Dodson, does a sixteen year old boy know about art?” he asked.

Dr. Dodson was a curiously affected man, who with his abundance of shockingly white hair, beard, and ample frame, inspired a notion of Santa Claus. He looked over his paper, but under his ample brow, at Jones, waiting patiently for a reply. He did not answer immediately. The silence represented his hope for Jones not being in a talkative mood. His suspicions ran otherwise. He answered, regardless

“Very little I imagine,” he replied and immediately continued with his reading.

He had barely returned to his eyes the paper when his better intuition proved out.

“Exactly!” Jones barked.

The sum effect of tone and volume startled Dodson erect, despite his lingering qualms.

“This is precisely my point,” Jones continued. “One would think a boy his age would be more interested in motors and the opposite sex.”

“More likely, indeed,” answered Dodson in a deliberately brief manner.

The doctor wore his disinterest reasonably well, returning to his paper. He could not be blamed if it did not work to detour Jones.

“What of you, Doctor?”

Making another futile attempt to discourage his friend, Dodson feigned interest in reading, believing if he did not answer, perhaps the conversation would wither. He could not, however, resist the feeling of Jones’ eyes burning into him for more than a moment.

“What about me?” he answered with as much detachment as he could muster, not daring to look up from his paper

“Art, doctor? What do you know about art? Fifty years have slid behind you. Surely you’ve acquired some knowledge on the subject?”

Horace sighed deeply and placed his paper on the table next to the chair. Time to give up. Experience told him Jones was determined to involve him in conversation. Relevance not withstanding, there would be no peace until he’d made his point.

“Shamefully little,” Dodson admitted. “Not really my cup of tea you know.”

“Tea!” Jones called out, rather too loudly. “What an extraordinary idea. Can I persuade you to make us a pot, Horace, my dear friend?”

Displeased, the doctor reluctantly lifted his bulk from the chair. He had no more interest in tea, than talking. There just seemed no point in resisting.  No good would come of it.