"Anything out of kilter? I mean, besides your headache?"
"Well ... yes."
("He's going to say he's hard up—the extravagant cuss!" Henry Houghton thought, with the old provoked affection.)
"I'm bothered about ... something," Maurice began.
("He's squabbled with Eleanor. I wish I was asleep!")
"Uncle Henry," Maurice said, "if you were going to see a lawyer, who would you see?"
"I wouldn't see him. Lawyers make their cake by cooking up other people's troubles. Sit down. Let's talk it out." He settled himself in a corner of the ragged old horsehair sofa which faced the empty fireplace and motioned Maurice to a chair. "I thought it wasn't all headache; what's the matter, boy?"
Maurice sat down, cleared his throat, and put his hands in his pockets so they would not betray him. "I—" he said.
Mr. Houghton appeared absorbed in biting off the end of his cigar.
"I—" Maurice said again.