“None, except to make the Far Lightship, as I told you; but even if we succeed, I don’t know whether it will be possible to get aboard of her unless the sea moderates.” “Won’t the lifeboat come out to look for you?” she asked. He shook his head. “How could they find one tiny sail upon the great ocean? Moreover, it will be supposed either that I have foundered or made some port along the coast. There is the worst of it. I fear that it may be telegraphed everywhere,” and he sighed deeply. “Why?” she asked. “Are you a very important person that they should bother to do that? You see,” she added in explanation, “I don’t even know your name or where you come from, only that you told me you worked in a shop which,” she added reflectively, looking at him, “seems odd.” Even then and there Morris could not help a smile; really this young lady was very original. “No,” he answered, “I am not at all important, and I work in a shop because I am an inventor—or try to be—in the electrical line. My name is Morris Monk, and I am the son of Colonel Monk, and live at the Abbey House, Monksland. Now you know all about me.” “Oh! of course I do, Mr. Monk,” she said in some confusion, “how foolish of me not to guess. You are my father’s principal new parishioner, of whom Mr. Tomley gave us a full description.” “Did he indeed? What did he say?” he asked idly. “Do you really want to know, Mr. Monk?” “Yes, if it is amusing. Just now I shall be grateful for anything that can divert my thoughts.” “And you will promise not to bear malice against Mr. Tomley?” “Certainly, especially as he has gone away, and I don’t expect to see him any more.” “Well, he described your father, Colonel Monk, as a handsome and distinguished elderly gentleman of very good birth, and manners, too, when he chose, who intensely disliked growing old. He said that he thought of himself more than of anybody else in the world, and next of the welfare of his family, and that if we wished to get on with him we must be careful not to offend his dignity, as then he would be quarrelsome.” “That’s true enough, or most of it,” answered Morris, “a good picture of my father’s weak side. And what was his definition of myself?” “He said that you were in his opinion one of the most interesting people that he had ever met; that you were a dreamer and a mystic; that you cared for few of the things which usually attract young men, and that you were in practice almost a misogynist. He added that, although heretofore you had not succeeded, he thought that you possessed real genius in certain lines, but that you had not your father’s ‘courtly air,’ that was his term. Of course, I am only repeating, so you must not be angry.”