then for the first time noticed the grayish pallor of his face.
"I'm afraid you're not well, Ormsby," he observed. "I'd suggest that you go over to the infirmary."
"No, sir, it's nothing," Rupert answered. He had a horror of the infirmary, where he had already spent so many weeks. "It's just a headache."
He sat down, and Mr. Allen marked him leniently for the failure.
For Rupert the hour of recitation dragged on with intolerable slowness. He could not look at his book. If he moved his head suddenly, pain darted through his eyeballs, and darkness shut down over them for a moment. The hot, throbbing ache seemed to vary its energy, now allowing intervals of relief between the pulses, now speeding up the battery and sending the shocks quivering in swift succession.
When the hour ended, Rupert got to his feet and stood a moment, swaying in giddiness. Then, with a fresh burst of pain, his eyesight
