Ben was reading one evening in Doctor Joe's cosy library, enjoying the most capacious arm-chair, and improvising a foot-rest out of one not quite so luxurious. The Doctor had been making out bills, and feeling quite encouraged, perhaps lighter-hearted than he would when he had waited a year for the payment of some of them.
"Joe," began his brother, abruptly, "what do you suppose makes mother so bitter about Delia Whitney?"
"Bitter?" repeated Joe, in the tone of indecision people often use when a proposition or question takes them by surprise.
"Yes. We all used to be so nice and jolly together, and Delia likes us all so much. Hanny has such good times down there, with the old lady who sings such pretty old-fashioned songs, if her voice is rather cracked and tremulous; and Nora is bright and entertaining. But the other day mother wouldn't let her go; and she was dreadfully disappointed; and mother is not as cordial to Delia as she used to be. Dele spoke of it."
Ben looked straight at his brother, out of the frankest of eyes. It was Joe who changed colour.
"I hate things to go crosswise. And when something keeps you just a little ruffled up all the time—"
Ben drew his brows. Was he really unconscious of the trouble?
"You go there a good deal, you know. Some of the men are not quite the company a young fellow should choose, mother thinks."
That was begging the main issue, of course.
"I don't see much of the older men. They're mostly smoking downstairs, and I don't care a bit for that. But their talk is often worth listening to. People who just keep in one little round have no idea how rich the world is growing intellectually, scientifically; and on what broad lines it is being laid."