"Nonsense! Dad's always discovering things," grinned Burke. "You know dad."
"But he says this is a sure thing. It's visible with the naked eye; but under the microscope it's wonderful. And— But, never mind! We'll see for ourselves to-night. You're coming up, of course."
"Sure! And I want to see—" The young man stopped abruptly. A painful color had swept to his forehead. "Er—no. On second thoughts I—I can't to-night," he corrected. In its resolute emphasis his voice sounded almost harsh. "But you—you're coming to dinner with us—to-morrow night, aren't you?"
"Oh, no; no, thank you," began the doctor hastily. Then, suddenly, he encountered his friend's steadfast eye upon him. "Er—that is," he amended in his turn, "unless you—you are willing to let me come very informally, as I shall have to leave almost at once afterwards. I'm taking the eight-thirty train that evening."
"Very good. We shall expect you," answered the younger man, with a curious relaxation of voice and manner—a relaxation that puzzled and slightly worried the doctor, who was wondering whether it were the relaxation of relief or despair. The doctor was not sure yet that he had rightly interpreted that steadfast gaze. Two minutes later, Burke, once again self-conscious, constrained, and with his head high, took his leave.
On his way back to work Burke berated himself soundly. Having deliberately bound himself to the martyrdom of a dinner to his friend, he was now insufferably angry that he should regard it as a martyrdom at all. Also he knew within himself that there seemed, for the moment, nothing that he would not give to spend the coming evening in the quiet restfulness of his father's library with the doctor and an Egyptian scarab.
As if all the Egyptian scarabs and Babylonian tablets in the world could balance the scale with Helen on the other side!