I don't know--" Morris pushed his chair back quickly, and stood up--his tall slim figure outlined against the sober red of the dining-room wall.

A plume of black hair had escaped from his well-brushed head and hung over his forehead, and his sun-tanned vivid face looked extraordinarily handsome.

His mother's clear-cut energetic features were there, with the glow and buoyancy of youth kindling them.

Violent vitality was his also; his was the hot blood that could do any deed when the life-instinct commanded it.
He looked like one of those who could give their body to be burned in the pursuit of an idea, or could as easily steal, or kill, provided only the deed was vitally done in the heat of his blood.

Violence was clearly his mode of life: the motor had to go sixty miles an hour; he might be one of those who bathed in the Serpentine in mid-winter; he would clearly dance all night, and ride all day, and go on till he dropped in the pursuit of what he cared for.