After tea the table was cleared, and Henry opened his bag and rustled papers, and the ladies knitted and sewed with extraordinary precautions to maintain the silence which was the necessary environment of Henry's labours. And in the calm and sane domestic interior, under the mild ray of the evening lamp, the sole sounds were Henry's dry, hacking cough and the cornet-like blasts of his nose into his cambric handkerchief.
'I think I'll do no more to-night,' he said at length, yawning.
'That's right, dear,' his mother ejaculated.
Then the doctor entered, and, for all the world as if by preconcerted action, the ladies disappeared. Dr. Dancer was on friendly terms with the household, and, his age being thirty, he was neither too old nor too young to address Henry as Old Man.
'Hallo, old man,' he began, after staring hard at Henry. 'What's the matter with your forehead?'
'Forehead?' Henry repeated questioningly.
'Yes. Let's have a look.'
The examination was thorough, and it ended with the thrusting of a thermometer into Henry's unwilling mouth.
'One hundred and two,' said the doctor, and, smiling faintly, he whispered something to Henry.