“Forgive me, father,” interrupted Morris with a ring of indignation in his voice; “but you must remember that I put you to no expense. In addition to what I inherited from my mother, which, of course, under the circumstances I do not ask for, I have my fellowship, out of which I contribute something towards the cost of my living and experiments, that, by the way, I keep as low as possible.” “Of course, of course,” said the Colonel, who did not wish to pursue this branch of the subject, but his son went on: “You know also that it was at your express wish that I came to live here at Monksland, as for the purposes of my work it would have suited me much better to take rooms in London or some other scientific centre.” “Really, my dear boy, you should control yourself,” broke in his father. “That is always the way with recluses; they cannot bear the slightest criticism. Of course, as you were going to devote yourself to this line of research it was right and proper that we should live together. Surely you would not wish at my age that I should be deprived of the comfort of the society of an only child, especially now that your mother has left us?” “Certainly not, father,” answered Morris, softening, as was his fashion at the thought of his dead mother. Then came a pause, and he hoped that the conversation was at end; a vain hope, as it proved. “My real object in troubling you, Morris,” continued his father, presently, “was very different to the unnecessary discussions into which we have drifted.” His son looked up, but said nothing. Again he knew what was coming, and it was worse than anything that had gone before. “This place seems very solitary with the two of us living in its great rooms. I, who am getting an old fellow, and you a student and a recluse—no, don’t deny it, for nowadays I can barely persuade you to attend even the Bench or a lawn-tennis party. Well, fortunately, we have power to add to our numbers; or at least you have. I wish you would marry, Morris.” His son turned sharply, and answered: “Thank you, father, but I have no fancy that way.” “Now, there’s Jane Rose, or that handsome Eliza Layard,” went on the Colonel, taking no notice. “I have reason to know that you might have either of them for the asking, and they are both good women without a breath against them, and, what in the state of this property is not without importance, very well to do. Jane gets fifty thousand pounds down on the day of her marriage, and as much more, together with the place, upon old Lady Rose’s death; while Miss Layard—if she is not quite to the manner born—has the interest in that great colliery and a rather sickly brother. Lastly—and this is strange enough, considering how you treat them—they admire you, or at least Eliza does, for she told me she thought you the most interesting man she had ever met.” “Did she indeed!” ejaculated Morris. “Why, I have only spoken three times to her during the last year.”