“I daresay not. It is long since I gave up trying to make up my mind about myself.”
“When you were a very small and very bad boy I made the usual prophecy that you would make a spoon or spoil a horn. Later I declared you would make the spoon. I still keep to that opinion, but I wish to goodness I knew what shape your spoon would take.”
“Ornamental, Doctor, some odd fancy spoon, but not useful. I feel an inner lack of usefulness.”
“Humph! Then things are serious, Lewie, and I, as your elder, should give advice; but confound it, my dear, I cannot think what it should be. Life has been too easy for you, a great deal too easy. You want a little of the salt and iron of the world. You are too clever ever to be conceited, and you are too good a fellow ever to be a fool, but apart from these sad alternatives there are numerous middle stages which are not very happy.”
The young man’s face lengthened, as it always did either in repose or reflection.
“You are old and wise, Doctor. Have you any cure for a man with sufficient money and no immediate profession to prevent stagnation?”
“None,” said the Doctor; “but the man himself can find many. The chief is that he be conscious of his danger, and on the watch against it. As a last expedient I should recommend a second course of travel.”
“But am I to be barred from my home because of this bogey of yours?”
“No, Lewie lad, but you must be kept, as you say, ‘up to scratch,’” and the old face smiled. “You are too good to waste. You Haystouns are high-strung, finicking people, on whom idleness sits badly. Also you are the last of your race and have responsibilities. You must remember I was your father’s friend, and knew you all well.”
At the mention of his father the young man’s interest quickened.