“I know; but it had to be done, dear. He’s losing a lot of money, which is mere waste”—here Morris groaned, but asked no questions—“besides,” and her voice became earnest, “I will not have him talking to you like that. The fact that one man is the father of another man doesn’t give him the right to abuse him like a pickpocket. Also, if you are so good that you put up with it, I have myself to consider—that is, if we are all to live as a happy family. Do you understand?” “Perfectly,” said Morris. “I daresay you are right, but I hate rows.” “So do I, and that is why I have accepted one or two challenges to single combat quite at the beginning of things. You mark my words, he will be like a lamb at breakfast to-morrow.” “You shouldn’t speak disrespectfully of my father; at any rate, to me,” suggested the old-fashioned Morris, rather mildly. “No, dear, and when I have learnt to respect him I promise you that I won’t. There, don’t be vexed with me; but my uncle Richard makes me cross, and then I scratch. As he said the other day, all women are like cats, you know. When they are young they play, when they get old they use their claws—I quote uncle Richard—and although I am not old yet, I can’t help showing the claws. Dad is ill, that is the fact of it, Morris, and it gets upon my nerves.” “I thought he was better, love.” “Yes, he is better; he may live for years; I hope and believe that he will, but it is terribly uncertain. And now, look here, Morris, why don’t you go home?” “Do you want to get rid of me, love?” he asked, looking up. “No, I don’t. You know that, I am sure. But what is the use of your stopping here? There is nothing for you to do, and I feel that you are wasting your time and that you hate it. Tell the truth. Don’t you long to be back at Monksland, working at that aerophone?” “I should be glad to get on with my experiments, but I don’t like leaving you,” he answered. “But you had better leave me for a while. It is not comfortable for you idling here, particularly when your father is in this uncertain temper. If all be well, in another couple of months or so we shall come together for good, and be able to make our own arrangements, according to circumstances. Till then, if I were you, I should go home, especially as I find that I can get on with my uncle much better when you are not here.” “Then what is to happen after we marry, and I can’t be sent away?” “Who knows? But if we are not comfortable at Monk’s Abbey, we can always set up for ourselves—with Dad at Seaview, for instance. He’s peaceable enough; besides, he must be looked after; and, to be frank, my uncle hectors him, poor dear.” “I will think it over,” said Morris. “And now come for a walk on the beach, and we will forget all these worries.”