“Yes, I shall give it all the painting it wants to do, and we and the family will make it as comfortable and contented as we can. No occasion to restrain its movements. I hope to persuade it to remain pretty quiet, though, because a materialization which is in a state of arrested development must of necessity be pretty soft and flabby and substanceless, and—er—by the way, I wonder where It comes from?”
“How? What do you mean?”
The earl pointed significantly—and interrogatively toward the sky. Hawkins started; then settled into deep reflection; finally shook his head sorrowfully and pointed downwards.
“What makes you think so, Washington?”
“Well, I hardly know, but really you can see, yourself, that he doesn’t seem to be pining for his last place.”
“It’s well thought! Soundly deduced. We’ve done that Thing a favor. But I believe I will pump it a little, in a quiet way, and find out if we are right.”
“How long is it going to take to finish him off and fetch him down to date, Colonel?”
“I wish I knew, but I don’t. I am clear knocked out by this new detail—this unforeseen necessity of working a subject down gradually from his condition of ancestor to his ultimate result as posterity. But I’ll make him hump himself, anyway.”
“Rossmore!”
“Yes, dear. We’re in the laboratory. Come—Hawkins is here. Mind, now Hawkins—he’s a sound, living, human being to all the family—don’t forget that. Here she comes.”