When they reached the fifth floor, Dr. Parkman stepped out with him, although he himself belonged farther up.
"I know him pretty well," he explained, "I'll go with you."
He could not very well say: "I would rather you would not," although for some reason he felt that way.
It was soon clear to their initiated minds that the oculist did not know the exact nature of the trouble. He admitted that the case perplexed him. He, too, must make an examination of the pus. He treated Karl's eyes, and advised that they begin upon an immediate and aggressive course of treatment. Dr. Parkman, observing Karl's growing irritability, said that he would look after all that, see that the right thing was done.
As he walked out of that office Karl was a little dizzy. His avenue of hope had grown narrower. It was not, then, some affection characteristic of eyes. It was, after all, something from without. It was, in all probability, one of two things,—it was either—but again he did not go beyond the first, telling himself with nervous buoyancy that that would not make any serious difference.
They stepped into an elevator and went up. He knew Parkman would ask him questions now, but it seemed he could not get away from the doctor if he tried. He felt just at present as though he had not strength to resist any one. That oculist, he admitted to himself, had taken a good deal of starch out of him.
When they reached the office, Dr. Parkman offered him a drink; that irritated him considerably.
"Why no," he said, fretfully, "No—I don't want a drink. Why should I take a drink? Did you think I was all shot to pieces about something?"
The doctor was looking over his mail, fingering it a great deal, but not seeming to accomplish much of anything with it. At last he wheeled around toward him.
"What's the matter with your eyes?" he asked with disconcerting directness.