“For a little pleasure trip.”

Ernest knew that the boy lied.

He remembered that Abel Felton was at work upon some book, a play or a novel. It occurred to him to inquire how far he had progressed with it.

Abel smiled sadly. “I am not writing it.”

“Not writing it?”

“Reginald is.”

“I am afraid I don’t understand.”

“Never mind. Some day you will.”