"It doesn't matter, my dear. I daresay I should go to sleep
again, if I went on with my novel."

"Is it really as dull as that?"

"Dull?" Mrs. Presty repeated. "You are evidently not aware of
what the new school of novel writing is doing. The new school
provides the public with soothing fiction."

"Are you speaking seriously, mamma?"

"Seriously, Catherine--and gratefully. These new writers are so
good to old women. No story to excite our poor nerves; no
improper characters to cheat us out of our sympathies, no
dramatic situations to frighten us; exquisite management of
details (as the reviews say), and a masterly anatomy of human
motives which--I know what I mean, my dear, but I can't explain
it."

"I think I understand, mamma. A masterly anatomy of human motives
which is in itself a motive of human sleep. No; I won't borrow
your novel just now. I don't want to go to sleep; I am thinking
of Herbert in London."

Mrs. Presty consulted her watch.

"Your husband is no longer in London," she announced; "he has
begun his journey home. Give me the railway guide, and I'll tell
you when he will be here tomorrow. You may trust me, Catherine,
to make no mistakes. Mr. Presty's wonderful knowledge of figures