Henry looked at the title-page. “It is Whatever, by Mrs. Fane Raymond,” he said, absently.
“I've heard it was a beautiful book.”
“Most women would like it,” said Henry. “It seems to be a lot written about a fool woman that didn't know what she wanted, by another fool woman who didn't know, either, and was born cross-eyed as to right and wrong.”
“Why, Henry Whitman, it ain't true!”
“I suppose it ain't.”
“No book is true—that is, no story.”
“If it ain't true, so much the less reason to tell such a pack of stupid lies,” said Henry. He closed the book with a snap.
“Why, Henry, ain't you going to finish it?”
“No, I ain't. I'm going back to the shop to work.”
“Henry Whitman, you ain't!”