Berkeley was obliged to go. But he did not go far. He remained on the premises. At midnight the conference between the old gentleman and the young girl was still going blithely on, but it presently drew to a close, and the former said:
“I came all the way over here to inspect you, my dear, with the general idea of breaking off this match if there were two fools of you, but as there’s only one, you can have him if you’ll take him.”
“Indeed I will, then! May I kiss you?”
“You may. Thank you. Now you shall have that privilege whenever you are good.”
Meantime Hawkins had long ago returned and slipped up into the laboratory. He was rather disconcerted to find his late invention, Snodgrass, there. The news was told him that the English Rossmore was come.
—“And I’m his son, Viscount Berkeley, not Howard Tracy any more.”
Hawkins was aghast. He said:
“Good gracious, then you’re dead!”
“Dead?”
“Yes you are—we’ve got your ashes.”