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."
So she said if there was nothing she could do for his head, she would leave him while she wrote a couple of letters.