“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. After “salutations,” as they say in the East, he wasted ten more minutes in abusing the cook, ending up with a direct appeal for his son’s estimate of her capacities.
“She might be better and she might be worse,” answered Morris, judicially.
“Quite so,” replied the Colonel, drily; “the remark is sound and applies to most things. At present, however, I think that she is worse; also I hate the sight of her fat red face. But bother the cook, why do you think so much about her; I have something else to say.”
“I don’t think,” said Morris. “She doesn’t excite me one way or the other, except when she is late with my breakfast.”
Then, as he expected, after the cook came the crisis.
“You will remember, my dear boy,” began the Colonel, affectionately, “a little talk we had a while ago.”
“Which one, father?”
“The last of any importance, I believe. I refer to the occasion when you stopped out all night contemplating the sea; an incident which impressed it upon my memory.”
Morris looked at him. Why was the old gentleman so inconveniently observant?
“And doubtless you remember the subject?”