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"[...] 'Well, Kenyon, ' said Wentworth 'you look as if you were writing a poem, or doing something that required deep mental agony.' 'The writing of poems, my dear Wentworth, I leave to you. I am doing something infinitely more practical-something that you ought to be at. I am thinking what we are to do with our mica-mine when we get it over to London.' 'Oh, "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,"' cried Wentworth jauntily; 'besides, half an hour's thinking by a solid-brained fellow like you is worth a whole voyage of my deepest meditation.'[...]."