Couldn't he go over to the laboratory a little earlier in the morning and finish up this terribly important thing? Was it nice of a man to have people being _sorry_ for his wife? Was it considerate of Karl to ask her to put on this pearl-coloured dress and then let her go down in the train all alone? She would telephone Dr. Parkman that they could not come. Then Karl would be sorry! But no--severely and with dignity--she would show that one member of the family had some sense of the conventions. Oh, yes--this in long-suffering vein--she would do _her_ part, and would also do her best to make up for Karl. No doubt she might as well become accustomed to that first as last. Going down in the train she had a very clear picture of herself as the poor, neglected wife of the man absorbed in his work. She saw so many reasons for being unhappy. Was it kind the way Karl had told her in that first letter about some other woman in his life, and then had never so much as revealed to her that other woman's name? Where did this woman live? When had Karl known her? How _well_ had he known her? And all the while her sense of humour was striving to make attacks upon her and the consciousness in her inmost heart that all this was absurd and most unworthy only made her the more persistently forlorn. She had never been to Dr. Parkman's office, and she was not very familiar with Chicago--had it never occurred to Karl she might get lost and have some unfortunate experience? But fate did not favour her mood, and she reached the office in safety. Dr. Parkman did not seem at all surprised at seeing her alone, which flamed the fire anew. "He hasn't backed out?" he demanded, laughing a little. She explained with considerable dignity that her husband had been detained at the laboratory, that he regretted it exceedingly, but would be with them just as soon as circumstances permitted. He took her into his private office, and Ernestine was too sincere a lover of beautiful things to be wholly miserable in a room like that. "Why, this doesn't look like an office," she exclaimed. "It's more like a pet room in a beautiful home." He laughed, not mirthfully. "I hardly think you could call it that, but this is where I spend a good deal of my time, so I tried to make it livable." He was busy at his desk, and she watched his hands. She was thinking that she would like to paint a picture and call it "The Surgeon." She would leave the man's face and figure in shadow, concentrating the light upon those hands, letting them tell their own story.