'Do I ever read at this time of day?'

'What is that in your lap?'

'Just my apron.'

'Is that a book beneath the apron?'

'It might be a book.'

'Let me see.'

'Go away with you to your work.'

But I lifted the apron. 'Why, it's "The Master of Ballantrae!"' I
exclaimed, shocked.

'So it is!' said my mother, equally surprised. But I looked
sternly at her, and perhaps she blushed.

'Well what do you think: not nearly equal to mine?' said I with
humour.

'Nothing like them,' she said determinedly.

'Not a bit,' said I, though whether with a smile or a groan is
immaterial; they would have meant the same thing. Should I put the
book back on its shelf? I asked, and she replied that I could put
it wherever I liked for all she cared, so long as I took it out of
her sight (the implication was that it had stolen on to her lap