Father and son were seated in wicker chairs on the portico, enjoying a pleasant breeze which gently rustled the leaves, as it sighed its way out toward the bay. The distorted shadow of the house cut across a freshly-mown lawn; cool, silvery moonlight lay beyond, its pale rays detaching from obscurity houses and clumps of trees. Patches of mysterious gloom stretched here and there, while the placid bay, far beneath, blended insensibly outward into the soft, grayish blue of a cloudless sky.
Mr. Beaumont pondered a moment before replying.
“I don’t know, Cranny,” he answered. “Willie is a curious lad. He certainly does not realize the importance of being in earnest. I can’t arouse him; nothing I do or say has the slightest effect.”
“Loafing just as much as ever?” asked Cranny.
“Whenever I come into the office unexpectedly I find him either idly drumming his heels against the chair, or lying back, gazing listlessly into space.”
“Maybe he’s a genius,” said Cranny, with a smile.
“If he is, I haven’t discovered any signs of it yet.”
“Come, dad, tell me what you are going to do about it?” repeated Cranny, a curious, eager expression flitting over his face.
“Frankly, I don’t know. Willie is more of a hindrance than a help in the business. Sharswood is offended—he’s a touchy, excitable chap. What the boy will do next——”
“Perhaps I can tell you what he ought to do,” interrupted Cranny.