e would have found
it hard to explain. On the face of it, the story was of a trivial order,
and in some of its aspects rather absurd. Two young people who happened
to be congenial, but one of whom was engaged, chance to be thrown
together for a couple of months in a country house. Although there
is some gossip, nothing at all occurs between them beyond a little
perfectly natural flirtation. The young man's father, hearing the
gossip, speaks to the young lady in order that she may take steps to
protect herself and his son against surmise and misinterpretation.
Thereupon a sudden flood of light breaks upon her soul, by which she
sees that she is really attached to the young man, and being a woman of
unusual character, or perhaps absurdly averse to lying even upon such
a subject, in answer to a question admits that this is so, and that she
very properly intends to go away.

Could anything be more commonplace, more in the natural order of events?
Why, then, was he moved? Oh! it was that woman's face and eyes. Old as
he might be, he felt jealous of his son; jealous to think that for him
such a woman could wear this countenance of wonderful and thrilling woe.
What was there in Morris that it should have called forth this depth of
passion undefiled? Now, if there were no Mary--but there was a Mary, it
was folly to pursue such a line of thought.

From sympathy for Stella, which was deep and genuine, to anger with
his son proved to the Colonel an easy step. Morris was that worst of
sinners, a hypocrite. Morris, being engaged to one woman, had taken
advantage of her absence deliberately to involve the affections of
another, or, at any rate, caused her considerable inconvenience. He was
wroth with Morris, and what was more, before he grew an hour older he
would let him have a piece of his mind.

He found the sinner in his workshop, the chapel, making mathematical
calculations, the very sight of which added to his father's indignation.
The man, he reflected to himself, who under these circumstances could
indulge an abnormal talent for mathematics, especially on Sunday, must
be a cold-blooded brute. He entered the place slamming the door behind
him; and Morris looking up noted with alarm, for he hated rows, that
there was war in his eye.

"Won't you take a chair, father?" he said.

"No, thank you; I would rather say what I have to say standing."

"What is the matter?"

"The matter is, sir, that I find that by your attentions