“Yes,” said Dean; “uncle was talking about it only this morning. He asked me if I didn’t see how his colour was altering.”
“Oh, that’s only the sun,” said Mark.
“Think so?” said the doctor, smiling. “I think it’s more than that.”
“But it was getting out of that nasty damp oven of a port,” said Mark. “I felt horrible there, and as if I should be ill if we stopped.”
“So did I,” added Dean; “and didn’t it make—” The boy paused for a moment as if hesitating.
“Well, didn’t it make what?”
”—Mark disagreeable,” said the boy, with a merry, mischievous look.
“Oh, come, I like that!” cried Mark. “Why, you must have noticed, doctor. Dean was nearly always half asleep, and when he was awake he did nothing but find fault.”
A short time after, when the boys were alone, Mark suddenly turned sharply upon his cousin with, “I say, why did you stop short when we were talking to the doctor?”
Dean turned rather red.