Now, my dear
one--as I MUST call you--I put it to you: will you see me a little
oftener as the spring advances?"
Grace lapsed into unwonted sedateness, and avoiding the question,
said, "I wish you would concentrate on your profession, and give
up those strange studies that used to distract you so much. I am
sure you would get on."
"It is the very thing I am doing. I was going to ask you to burn--
or, at least, get rid of--all my philosophical literature. It is
in the bookcases in your rooms. The fact is, I never cared much
for abstruse studies."
"I am so glad to hear you say that. And those other books--those
piles of old plays--what good are they to a medical man?"
"None whatever!" he replied, cheerfully. "Sell them at Sherton
for what they will fetch."
"And those dreadful old French romances, with their horrid
spellings of 'filz' and 'ung' and 'ilz' and 'mary' and 'ma foy?'"
"You haven't been reading them, Grace?"
"Oh no--I just looked into them, that was all.
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