"Children are terrible critics," I prosaically answered. "I'm really
glad I haven't any."

"Do you also write, then? And in the same style as my brother? And
do you like that style? And do people appreciate it in America? I
don't write, but I think I feel." To these and various other
inquiries and observations my young lady treated me till we heard her
brother's step in the hall again and Mark Ambient reappeared. He was
so flushed and grave that I supposed he had seen something
symptomatic in the condition of his child. His sister apparently had
another idea; she gazed at him from afar--as if he had been a burning
ship on the horizon--and simply murmured "Poor old Mark!"

"I hope you're not anxious," I as promptly pronounced.

"No, but I'm disappointed. She won't let me in. She has locked the
door, and I'm afraid to make a noise." I daresay there might have
been a touch of the ridiculous in such a confession, but I liked my
new friend so much that it took nothing for me from his dignity.
"She tells me--from behind the door--that she'll let me know if he's
worse."

"It's very good of her," said Miss Ambient with a hollow sound.

I had exchanged a glance with Mark in which it's possible he read
that my pity for him was untinged with contempt, though I scarce know
why he should have cared; and as his sister soon afterward got up and
took her bedroom candlestick he proposed we should go back to his
study. We sat there till after midnight; he put himself into his
slippers and an old velvet jacket, he lighted an ancient pipe, but he