Mark hesitated and Sir Julian waited, rather amused to hear how his simple, straightforward agent and man of business would explain the cause of his children's objectionable upliftedness.
"I daresay they told you I had a letter from my sister this morning. It seems that she's written a novel, and Messrs. Blade have agreed to publish it. Of course, she's very delighted about it, and asked me to tell the kids, and the idea somehow took hold of them. I don't see quite why it should appeal to them so much, but you know how excitable children are."
"Have you read the book?"
"Good Lord, no! I never took her scribbling seriously."
Mark took off his cap and let the wind ruffle up his brown hair and moustache. His blue eyes laughed, while his face was still screwed up into a look of perplexity.
"She's given it a very odd name. I daresay the children told you."
"Yes. They did."
"I hope it's proper, I'm sure," said Mark Easter doubtfully. "They say that girls always write the most improper books. I suppose because they don't know what they're talking about."
"I daresay it's innocent enough."
Mark repeated thoughtfully, "It seems an odd thing to call a book, 'Why, Ben!' but I don't mind saying that I wish she hadn't added that it was a story of the sexes—and the worst of it is that the children have got hold of it, and I'm afraid that we shall never hear the last of it."