A silence followed. "Harry, you must come up with your story next time--positively," said Mr. Armstrong at length. "I don't think I can. I cannot undertake to do so, at all events." "Then what is to be done?--I have it. Lizzie, my dear, you have got that story you wrote once for a Christmas paper, have you not?" "Yes, I have, Ralph; but that is far too slight a thing to be worth reading here." "It will do at least to give Harry a chance for his. I mustn't praise it 'afore fowk,' you know." "But it was never quite finished--at least so people said." "Well, you can finish it to-morrow well enough." "I haven't time." "You needn't be working at that--all day long and every day. There is no such hurry." The blank indicates a certain cessation of intelligible sound occasioned by the close application of Lizzie's palm to Ralph's lips. She did not, dare, however, to make any further opposition to his request. "I think we have some claim on you, Mrs. Armstrong," said the host. "It will be my sister's turn next time, and after that Percy's." Percy gave a great laugh; and his mother said, with a slight toss of her head: "I am not so fond of being criticised myself!" "Has criticism been _your_ occupation, Mrs. Cathcart," I said, "during our readings? If so, then indeed we have a claim on you greater than I had supposed." She could not hide some degree of confusion and annoyance. But I had had my revenge, and I had no wish for her story; so I said nothing more. We parted with the understanding that Mrs. Armstrong would read her story on the following Monday. Again, before he took his leave, Mr. Harry had a little therapeutic _tete-a-tete_ with Miss Adela, which lasted about two minutes, Mrs. Cathcart watching them every second of the time, with her eyes as round and wide as she could make them, for they were by nature very long, and by art very narrow, for she rarely opened them to any width at all. They were not pleasant eyes, those eyes of Mrs. Cathcart's. Percy's were like them, only better, for though they had a reddish tinge, he did open them wider. CHAPTER VII. MY UNCLE PETER. "Why don't you write a story, Percy?" said his mother to him next morning at breakfast. "Plenty of quill-driving at Somerset-House, mother. I prefer something else in the holidays." "But I don't like to see you showing to disadvantage, Percy," said his uncle kindly. "Why don't you try?" "The doctor-fellow hasn't read one yet. And I don't think he will." "Have patience. I think he will." "I don't care. I don't want to hear it. It's all a confounded bore. They're nothing but goody humbug, or sentimental whining. His would be sure to smell of black draught. I'm not partial to drugs." The mother frowned, and the uncle tried to smile kindly and excusingly. Percy rose and left the room. "You see he's jealous of the doctor," remarked his mother, with an upward toss of the head. The colonel did not reply, and I ventured no remark.