"What man, Mamma?"
"The man that's going to bring out Eden's book. When's he coming? I want to have on my écru cap with the mauve ribbons."
"I'll let you know in time, Mamma."
"M-m. . . . More wood. Put more wood on the fire. I like to be warm as well as any one."
Ernest laid a heavy piece of oak log on the fire and stood looking down at it till slender flames began to caress it; then he turned to look at his mother. She was fast asleep, her chin buried in her breast. The Scotch mint had slipped out of her mouth and Boney had snatched it up and carried it to a corner of the room, where he was striking it on the floor to crack it, imagining it was some rare sort of nut. Ernest smiled and retreated, gently closing the door after him.
He slowly mounted the stairs, Sasha swaying on his shoulder, and sought his own room. The door of his brother's room stood open, and as he passed he had a glimpse of Nicholas sprawling in an armchair, his gouty leg supported on a beaded ottoman, his untidy head enveloped in cigar smoke. In his own room he was surprised and pleased to find his nephew, Eden. The young men did not often call on him; they favored Nicholas, who had ribald jokes to tell. Nevertheless, he liked their company, and was always ready to lay aside his work—the annotating of Shakespeare—for the sake of it.
Eden was sitting on the edge of a book-littered table, swinging his leg. He looked self-conscious and flustered.
"I hope I'm not troubling you, Uncle," he said. "Just say the word if you don't want me and I'll clear out."
Ernest sat down in the chair farthest from his desk, to show that he had no thought of study. "I'm glad to have you, Eden. You know that. I'm very pleased about this success of yours—this book, and all the more
