Lucian was mildly amused; he couldn't enter into his father's feelings at
all. He sat smoking in one of the old easy chairs, taking the rare relish
of a hot grog with his pipe, and gazing out of his dreamy eyes at the
violent old parson. He was pleased that his father liked his book,
because he knew him to be a deep and sober scholar and a cool judge of
good letters; but he laughed to himself when he saw the magic of print.
The parson had expressed no wish to read the manuscript when it came back
in disgrace; he had merely grinned, said something about boomerangs, and
quoted Horace with relish. Whereas now, before the book in its neat case,
lettered with another man's name, his approbation of the writing and his
disapproval of the "scoundrels," as he called them, were loudly
expressed, and, though a good smoker, he blew and puffed vehemently at
his pipe.

"You'll expose the rascals, of course, won't you?" he said again.

"Oh no, I think not. It really doesn't matter much, does it? After all,
there are some very weak things in the book; doesn't it strike you as
'young?' I have been thinking of another plan, but I haven't done much
with it lately. But I believe I've got hold of a really good idea this
time, and if I can manage to see the heart of it I hope to turn out a
manuscript worth stealing. But it's so hard to get at the core of an
idea--the heart, as I call it," he went on after a pause. "It's like
having a box you can't open, though you know there's something wonderful
inside. But I do believe I've a fine thing in my hands, and I mean to try
my best to work it."

Lucian talked with enthusiasm now, but his father, on his side, could not
share these ardors. It was his part to be astonished at excitement over a