"Chest! dear no, mother; always wear flannel next the skin, you know," her son replied lightly.
Mrs. Charles sighed, and her lips tightened as in pain.
"What books has Mr. Grant written?" Dora asked, à propos of nothing.
"Some novels which I don't advise you to read," said Henry.
"Why that? I'm growing quite literary," his sister returned. "Eunice has infected me; she's a great reader now."
At mention of the name, Henry coloured a little.
"Indeed!" he said. "She always had good taste, I think; but really I'm sick of books and writing. I think you used to do pretty well without them."
"Hearken at that," said his father. "Sick of books! It's the same all over. Old Brag the butcher used to say, leave a cat free for a night in the shop to eat all it could get, and it was safe to leave the beef alone ever after. I'm sick o' postage stamps, but we've got to sell 'em."
"I'm not so tired of my work as all that," Henry went on, "but down here I'm glad to get away from it."
We know this was scarcely true, as he had brought down his unfinished manuscript of "that book" to work at it if he felt the mood come on. He spoke chiefly to divert the conversation from the topic of Adrian Grant's novels, which he felt he could not frankly discuss in this home of simple life.