was inclined to be talkative, taking refuge in the excitement of having work-men in the house from the uneasy feelings which still oppressed her in consequence of those frightening raps.  But now that the haunted room was to be invaded by friendly, commonplace artisans from the village, and turned inside out, and almost pulled to pieces, there was a chance that the ghosts would be got rid of without invoking the aid of Mr Sheepshanks; a reflection that inspired her with hope, and comforted her greatly.

“You know you’re a great anxiety to me, Austin,” she said, as, refreshed by food and wine, she took up her knitting after lunch.  “I wish you were more like other boys, indeed I do.  I never could understand you, and I suppose I never shall.”

“But what does that matter, auntie?” asked Austin.  “I don’t understand you sometimes, but that doesn’t make me anxious in the very least.  Why you should worry yourself about me I can’t conceive.  What do I do to make you anxious?  I don’t get tipsy, I don’t gamble away vast fortunes at a sitting, and although I’m getting on for eighteen I haven’t had a single action for breach of promise brought against me by anybody.  Now I think that’s rather a creditable record.  It isn’t everybody who can say as much.”

“I want you to be more serious, Austin,” replied his aunt, “and not to talk such nonsense as you’re talking now.  I want you to be sensible, practical, and alive to the sober facts of life.  You’re too dreamy a great deal.  Soon you won’t know the difference between dreams and realities——­”

“I don’t even now.  No more do you.  No more does anybody,” interrupted Austin, lighting a cigarette.

“There you are again!” exclaimed Aunt Charlotte, clicking her needles energetically.  “Did one ever hear such rubbish?  It all comes from those outlandish books you’re always poring over.  If you’d only take my advice, you’d read something solid, and sensible, and improving, like ‘Self Help,’ by Dr Smiles.  That would be of some use to you, but these others——­”

“I read a whole chapter of it once,” said Austin.  “I can scarcely believe it myself, but I did.  It’s the most immoral, sordid, selfish book that was ever printed.  It deifies Success—­success in money-making—­success of the coarsest and most materialistic kind.  It is absolutely unspiritual and degrading.  It nearly made me sick.”

“Be silent!” cried Aunt Charlotte, horrified.  “How dare you talk like that?  I will not sit still and hear you say such things.  Few books have had a greater influence upon the age.  Degrading?  Why, it’s been the making of thousands!”

“Thousands of soulless money-grubbers,” retorted Austin.  “That’s what it has made.  Men without an idea or an aspiration above their horrible spinning-jennies and account-books.  I hate your successful stockbrokers and shipowners and manufacturers.  They are an odious race.  Wasn’t it a stockjobber who thought Botticelli was a cheese?  Everyone knows the story, and I believe the hero of it was either a stockjobber or a man who made screws in Birmingham.”