presumably been sent here in the hope that a little more labour
might still be exacted from it if it were suffered to repose for
a few weeks. There were sores upon its back and legs; it stood in
a fixed attitude of despondency, just flicking away troublesome
flies with its grizzled tail.

It was tea-time when he went in. Maud was not at home, and Mrs
Milvain, tormented by a familiar headache, kept her room; so
Jasper and Dora sat down together. Each had an open book on the
table; throughout the meal they exchanged only a few words.

'Going to play a little?' Jasper suggested when they had gone
into the sitting-room.

'If you like.'

She sat down at the piano, whilst her brother lay on the sofa,
his hands clasped beneath his head. Dora did not play badly, but
an absentmindedness which was commonly observable in her had its
effect upon the music. She at length broke off idly in the middle
of a passage, and began to linger on careless chords. Then,
without turning her head, she asked:

'Were you serious in what you said about writing storybooks?'

'Quite. I see no reason why you shouldn't do something in that
way. But I tell you what; when I get back, I'll inquire into the
state of the market. I know a man who was once engaged at Jolly &
Monk's--the chief publishers of that kind of thing, you know; I
must look him up--what a mistake it is to neglect any