trunk:  Sartor Resartus, Virginibus Puerisque, Huckleberry Finn, and Afterwhiles.  There were some other books in the trunk—­a large one, which remained unremoved at the foot of the bed, adding to the general impression of transiency.  It contained nearly all the possessions as well as the secret life of Bibbs Sheridan, and Bibbs sat beside it, the day after his interview with his father, raking over a small collection of manuscripts in the top tray.  Some of these he glanced through dubiously, finding little comfort in them; but one made him smile.  Then he shook his head ruefully indeed, and ruefully began to read it.  It was written on paper stamped “Hood Sanitarium,” and bore the title, “Leisure.”

A man may keep a quiet heart at seventy miles an hour, but not if he is running the train.  Nor is the habit of contemplation a useful quality in the stoker of a foundry furnace; it will not be found to recommend him to the approbation of his superiors.  For a profession adapted solely to the pursuit of happiness in thinking, I would choose that of an invalid:  his money is time and he may spend it on Olympus.  It will not suffice to be an amateur invalid.  To my way of thinking, the perfect practitioner must be to all outward purposes already dead if he is to begin the perfect enjoyment of life.  His serenity must not be disturbed by rumors of recovery; he must lie serene in his long chair in the sunshine.  The world must be on the other side of the wall, and the wall must be so thick and so high that he cannot hear the roaring of the furnace fires and the screaming of the whistles.  Peace—­

Having read so far as the word “peace,” Bibbs suffered an interruption interesting as a coincidence of contrast.  High voices sounded in the hall just outside his door; and it became evident that a woman’s quarrel was in progress, the parties to it having begun it in Edith’s room, and continuing it vehemently as they came out into the hall.

“Yes, you better go home!” Bibbs heard his sister vociferating, shrilly.  “You better go home and keep your mind a little more on your husband!”

“Edie, Edie!” he heard his mother remonstrating, as peacemaker.

“You see here!” This was Sibyl, and her voice was both acrid and tremulous.  “Don’t you talk to me that way!  I came here to tell Mother Sheridan what I’d heard, and to let her tell Father Sheridan if she thought she ought to, and I did it for your own good.”

“Yes, you did!” And Edith’s gibing laughter tooted loudly.  “Yes, you did!  You didn’t have any other reason!  Oh no!  You don’t want to break it up between Bobby Lamhorn and me because—­”

“Edie, Edie!  Now, now!”

“Oh, hush up, mamma!  I’d like to know, then, if she says her new friends tell her he’s got such a reputation that he oughtn’t to come here, what about his not going to her house.  How—­”