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 Doctor 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. "No!" Edward Henry protested, as an invalid always will. "I’m only just keeping an eye on one or two pressing things." "Of course he’s in full blast!" said Nellie with calm conviction. "What’s this I hear about ye ganging away to the seaside, Saturday?" asked the doctor. "Well, can’t I?" said Edward Henry. "Ye can," said the doctor. "Let’s have a look at ye, man." "What was it you said I’ve had?" Edward Henry questioned. "Colonitis." "Yes, that’s the word. I thought I couldn’t have got it wrong. Well, you should have seen my mother’s face when I told her what you called it. She said, ’He may call it that if he’s a mind to, but we had another name for it in my time.’ You should have heard her sniff! ... Look here, Doc, do you know you’ve had me down now for pretty near three months?" "Nay," said Stirling. "It’s yer own obstinacy that’s had ye down, man. If ye’d listened to yer London doctor at first, mayhap ye wouldn’t have had to travel from Euston in an invalid’s carriage. If ye hadn’t had the misfortune to be born an obstinate simpleton ye’d ha’ been up and about six weeks back. But there’s no doing anything with you geniuses. It’s all nerves with you and your like." "Nerves!" exclaimed Edward Henry, pretending to scorn. But he was delighted at the diagnosis. "Nerves," repeated the doctor firmly. "Ye go gadding off to America. Ye get yeself mixed up in theatres.... How’s the theatre? I see yer famous play’s coming to end next week."