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.
"There is a vein of essential vulgarity in both the brothers," said
the lady.
"I don't think so," returned the colonel; and there the conversation
ended.
Adela was practising at her piano the greater part of the day. The
weather would not admit of a walk.
When we were all seated once more for our reading and Mrs. Armstrong had
her paper in her hand, after a little delay of apparent irresolution,
she said all at once:
"Ralph, I can't read.
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