tion of that day's _Signal_. Of late Robert,
having exhausted nearly all available books, had been cultivating
during his holidays an interest in journalism, and he would give great
accounts, in the nursery, of events happening in each day's instalment
of the _Signal's_ sensational serial. His heels kicked idly one
against the other.

A powerful voice resounded in the lobby, and Dr Stirling entered the
room with Nellie.

"Well, doc.!" Edward Henry greeted him.

"So you're in full blast again!" observed the doctor, using a metaphor
invented by the population of a district where the roar of furnaces
wakens the night.

"No!" Edward Henry protested, as an invalid always will. "I'm only
just keeping an eye on one or two pressing things."

"Of course he's in full blast!" said Nellie with calm conviction.

"What's this I hear about ye ganging away to the seaside, Saturday?"
asked the doctor.

"Well, can't I?" said Edward Henry.

"Ye can," said the doctor. "Let's have a look at ye, man."

"What was it you said I've had?" Edward Henry questioned.

"Colitis."

"Yes, that's the word. I thought I couldn't have got it wrong. Well,
you should have seen my mother's face when I told her what you called
it. She said, 'He may call it that if he's a mind to, but we had
another name for it in my time.' You should have heard her sniff!...
Look here, doc., do you know you've had me down now for pretty near
three months?"

"Nay," said Stirling, "it's yer own obstinacy that's had ye down, man.
If ye'd listened to yer London doctor at first, mayhap ye wouldn't
have had to travel from Euston in an invalid's carriage. If ye hadn't
had the misfortune to be born an obstinate simpleton ye'd ha' been
up and about six weeks back. But there's no doing anything with you
geniuses. It's all nerves with you and your like."

"Nerves!" exclaimed Edward Henry, pretending to scorn. But he was
delighted at the diagnosis.

"Nerves," repeated the doctor, firmly. "Ye go gadding off to America.
Ye get yeself mixed up in theatres.... How's the theatre? I see yer
famous play's coming to an end next week."

"And what if it is?" said Edward Henry, jealous for reputations,
including his own. "It will have run for a hundred and one nights. And
right through August too! No modern poetry play ever did run as long
in London, and no other ever will. I've given the intellectual theatre
the biggest ad. it ever had. And I've made money on it. I should have