Good night." "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.