Nor was he in the least reassured by his father's airy and informed comments upon the contents of the "Globe," which always arrived by post, and the marvel of its daily "turnover" article, whereof the perpetual variety throughout the decades constituted, the Colonel was wont to say, the eighth wonder of the world.

Instinct, instructed by experience, assured him that these were but the first moves in the game.
Towards the end of the meal he attempted retreat, pretending that he wanted to fetch something, but the Colonel, who was watching him over the top of the pink page of the "Globe," intervened promptly.
"If you have a few minutes to spare, my dear boy, I should like to have a chat with you," he said.
"Certainly, father," answered the dutiful Morris; "I am at your service." "Very good; then I will light my cigar, and we might take a stroll on the beach, that is, after I have seen the cook about the dinner to-night.

Perhaps I shall find you presently by the steps." "I will wait for you there," answered Morris.

And wait he did, for a considerable while, for the interview with the cook proved lengthy.
Moreover, the Colonel was not a punctual person, or one who set an undue value upon his own or other people's time.

At length, just as Morris was growing weary of the pristine but enticing occupation of making ducks and drakes with flat pebbles, his father appeared.