Herman Medfield, still sitting in his window, with the blue quilted gown wrapped about his legs, wore an unhappy expression. Dr. Carmon scanned it. He set down the black bag and drew up a chair. "What seems to be the matter?" he asked. He seated himself firmly in the chair and looked at his patient through keen glasses. All the little fine unconscious fibres that diagnosed a case for Dr. Carmon were alert and reaching out for signs; but the doctor himself looked as impassive as a stone jug, sitting in his chair, a hand on either knee--surveying Herman Medfield. "What is the matter?" he said. "I don't know." Medfield's tone was indifferent. "I feel worse--general distress--heaviness." "Any pain?" The doctor's hand burrowing in his pocket had brought out the stethoscope. He adjusted it to his ears and hitched his chair a little nearer. Medfield made an obliging movement forward. "Stay where you are," said the doctor gruffly. He leaned forward and placed the little metal disks on the blue quilted gown and bent his head. The two men were silent. Medfield with his head against the back of the chair and his eyes closed was wondering guiltily what the two little flexible tubes were revealing to the listening ears. And Dr. Carmon, behind an impenetrable scowling mask, was wondering what the devil had gone wrong with Herman Medfield. And he listened--not so much with his ears, as with those little inner senses that never deceived him if he trusted them. He slipped off the stethoscope and sat up. "Did you say you had pain?" he asked. "A little." The tone was weary. Dr. Carmon looked at him sharply. "Whereabouts?" Medfield turned his head restively. "Everywhere," he said. "Up my back and shoulders--the right one--and in my head." "Your head aches, does it?" That was the outside question; and inside, all the little therapeutic fibres in Dr. Carmon's stubby figure were saying to him: "His head is as good as yours is, this minute! What's the matter with him? Buck up--and find out!" He put his hand on the patient's wrist. "What would you like for dinner?" he asked. "I couldn't eat anything," said Medfield passively. "Not a nice chop--with some asparagus and mayonnaise?" The doctor was watching the face. Medfield shook his head resolutely. "I don't feel like eating." "Very well." Dr. Carmon sat back and looked at him. "I think you'd better go to bed--and stay there for a while." "You think I got up too soon?" Medfield's voice was patient and full of acquiescence; it was very meek. "I don't think anything," said Dr. Carmon gruffly. "But when a man can't eat, he'd better be in bed.... There's nothing the matter with you." Medfield's heart gave a quick little jump, and the doctor's hand that had strayed again to his wrist, counted it grimly. "You're tired. That's all! Had company?" "Some one came in--yes. She only stayed a few minutes," he added virtuously.