"
"Well," said Edward Henry, "I'm going to bed." And he gave a
devastating yawn.
VIII
One afternoon Edward Henry sat in the king of all the easy-chairs in
the drawing-room of his house in Trafalgar Road, Bursley. Although
the month was September, and the weather warm even for September,
a swansdown quilt lay spread upon his knees. His face was pale--his
hands were paler; but his eye was clear and his visage enlightened.
His beard had grown to nearly its original dimensions. On a chair
by his side were a number of letters to which he had just dictated
answers. At a neighbouring table a young clerk was using a typewriter.
Stretched at full length on the sofa was Robert Machin, engaged in the
perusal of the second edition 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.
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