Stephen threw the paper upon the table.
"She's going to act in another of those confounded French plays," he said; "translations with all the wit taken out and all the vulgarity left in."
"We know nothing of her art," John declared coldly. "We shouldn't understand it, even if we saw her act. Therefore, it isn't right for us to judge her. The world has found her a great actress. She is not responsible for the plays she acts in."
Stephen turned away and lit his pipe anew. He smoked for a minute or two furiously. His thick eyebrows came closer and closer together. He seemed to be turning some thought over in his mind.
"John," he asked, "is it this cursed money that is making you restless?"
"I never think of it except when some one comes begging. I promised a thousand pounds to the infirmary to-day."
"Then what's wrong with you?"
John stretched himself out, a splendid figure of healthy manhood. His cheeks were sun-tanned, his eyes clear and bright.
"The matter? There's nothing on earth the matter with me," he declared.
"It isn't your health I mean. There are other things, as you well know. You do your day's work and you take your pleasure, and you go through both as if your feet were on a treadmill."