But Georgia had an engagement. She insisted at last that they must go. Dr. Parkman had remained too, although Ernestine was satisfied he was not enjoying things. "Why, what in the world have you done to Karl?" laughed Georgia, pinning on her hat. "I haven't had such good fun for months. I had no idea he was such a gem of a dinner man." "I do not think Karl is very well," said Ernestine, a little coolly. "_Well_? Why, bless you, I never saw him in such exuberant mood." "Didn't they make the words fly?" laughed Mrs. McCormick. "My dear, you and the doctor and I were quite left behind." "It seemed that way," said Ernestine, trying to keep her chin from quivering. When she returned to the library, Dr. Parkman and Karl were evidently just closing a discussion for Karl was saying, heatedly: "Now just let me manage things in my own way!" The doctor seemed reluctant to leave. Ernestine was alone with him for a minute in the hall, and she was sure he started to say something once and then changed it to something else. But when he did leave, it was with merely the conventional goodbye. She walked slowly back to the library. Karl was sitting in the Morris chair, his elbow upon one arm of it, his hand to his forehead. His whole bearing had changed; it was as though he had let down. Again it seemed as though in the last hour he had been intoxicated, and this the depression to follow that kind of exuberance. But he looked up as he heard her, and smiled a little, a wan, tired smile. She was beside him in an instant. "You seemed so happy this afternoon, dear," she said, stroking his hair, "and now you seem so tired. Aren't you well, Karl?" she asked, a little timidly. His face then mirrored a dissatisfaction, a sort of resentment. "I talked like a fool this afternoon!" he said gruffly. "Why, no, dear, only--not quite like yourself." "Well, the fact of the matter is"--this after a minute's thought--"I have a frightful headache. I suppose it comes from this trouble with my eyes. I thought I wasn't going to be able to keep up, and in my efforts to do it, I"--he paused and then laughed rather harshly--"overdid it." He seemed anxious for her reply to that. "I knew it was something like that," she said simply. Then, after a minute: "Is there anything I can do for the head?" He told her no, but that he believed he would turn the chair around with his back to the light. "And I won't talk, dear," he said gently; "I'll just rest a little." She helped him with the chair and for a minute sat there on a low seat beside him. "You know, sweetheart," resting her cheek upon his hand, "I don't like those dark glasses at all. I'll be so glad when you don't have to wear them." "Why?" he asked, his voice a little muffled. "Because they shut me out. I always seem closer to you when I can look into your eyes.--Oh--does it pain so?" as he drew sharply away. "That did hurt," he admitted, his voice low. "I--I'd better not talk for a little, dear."