“If you were not my father,” he said, “I should ask you to change your tone in speaking to me on such a subject; but as things are I suppose that I must submit to it, unless you choose otherwise.” “The facts, Morris,” answered his father, “justify any language that I can use.” “Did you get these facts from Stephen Layard and Miss Layard? Ah! I guessed as much. Well, the story is a lie; I was merely arranging her hood which she could not do herself, as the wind forced her to use her hand to hold her dress down.” The thought of his own ingenuity in hitting on the right solution of the story mollified the Colonel not a little. “Pshaw,” he said, “I knew that. Do you suppose that I believed you fool enough to kiss a girl on the open road when you had every opportunity of kissing her at home? I know, too, that you have never kissed her at all; or, ostensibly at any rate, done anything that you shouldn’t do.” “What is my offence, then?” asked Morris. “Your offence is that you have got her talked about; that you have made her in love with you—don’t deny it; I have it from her own lips. That you have driven her out of this place to earn a living in London as best she may, and that, being yourself an engaged man”—here once more the Colonel drew a bow at a venture—“you are what is called in love with her yourself.” These two were easy victims to the skill of so experienced an archer. The shaft went home between the joints of his son’s harness, and Morris sank back in his chair and turned white. Generosity, or perhaps the fear of exciting more unpleasant consequences, prevented the Colonel from following up this head of his advantage. “There is more, a great deal more, behind,” he went on. “For instance, all this will probably come to Mary’s ears.” “Certainly it will; I shall tell her of it myself.” “Which will be tantamount to breaking your engagement. May I ask if that is your intention?” “No; but supposing that all you say were true, and that it _was_ my intention, what then?” “Then, sir, to my old-fashioned ideas you would be a dishonourable fellow, to cast away the woman who has only you to look to in the world, that you may put another woman who has taken your fancy in her place.” Morris bit his lip. “Still speaking on that supposition,” he replied, “would it not be more dishonourable to marry her; would it not be kinder, shameful as it may be, to tell her all the truth and let her seek some worthier man?” The Colonel shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t split hairs,” he said, “or enter on an argument of sentimental casuistry. But I tell you this, Morris, although you are my only son, and the last of our name, that rather than do such a thing, under all the circumstances, it would be better that you should take a pistol and blow your brains out.” “Very probably,” answered Morris, “but would you mind telling me also what are the exact circumstances which would in your opinion so aggravate this particular case?”