"Really," thought Colonel Monk to himself as he took off his dress-shoes
and, with military precision, set them side by side beneath a chair, "it
does seem a little hard on me that I should be responsible for a son who
is in love with a damned, unworkable electrical machine. And with his
chances--with his chances! Why he might have been a second secretary in
the Diplomatic Service by now, or anything else to which interest could
help him. And there he sits hour after hour gabbling down a little
trumpet and listening for an answer which never comes--hour after hour,
and month after month, and year after year. Is he a genius, or is he an
idiot, or a moral curiosity, or simply useless? I'm hanged if I know,
but that's a good idea about Mary; though, of course, there are things
against it. Curious that I should never have considered the matter
seriously before--because of the cousinship, I suppose. Would she have
him? It doesn't seem likely, but you can never know what a woman will or
will not do, and as a child she was very fond of Morris. At any rate the
situation is desperate, and if I can, I mean to save the old place, for
his sake and our family's, as well as my own."

He went to the window, and, lifting a corner of the blind, looked out.
"There he is, still staring at the sea and the sky, and there I daresay
he will be till dawn. I bet he has forgotten all about Mary now, and is
thinking of his electrical machine. What a curiosity! Good heavens; what
a curiosity! Ah, I wonder what they would have made of him in my old
mess five and thirty years ago?" And quite overcome by this reflection,
the Colonel shook his grizzled head, put out the candle, and retired to
rest.



His father was right. The beautiful September dawn was breaking over the