By the time that I was your age I had done a good deal," said his father, meditatively.

When he meant to be disagreeable it was the Colonel's custom to become reflective.
"I can't admit that," answered Morris, in his light, quick voice--"I mean I can't admit that my time has either been idled away or wasted.

On the contrary, father, I have worked very hard, as I did at college, and as I have always done, with results which, without boasting, I may fairly call glorious--yes, glorious--for when they are perfected they will change the methods of communication throughout the whole world." As he spoke, forgetting the sharp vexation of the moment, his face was irradiated with light--like some evening cloud on which the sun strikes suddenly.
Watching him out of the corner of his eye, even in that low moonlight, his father saw those fires of enthusiasm shine and die upon his son's face, and the sight vexed him.

Enthusiasm, as he conceived, perhaps with justice, had been the ruin of Morris.

Ceasing to be reflective, his tone became cruel.
"Do you really think, Morris, that the world wishes to have its methods of communication revolutionised?
Aren't there enough telephones and phonograms and aerial telegraphs already?
It seems to me that you merely wish to add a new terror to existence.