his papers, his shoulders heaving with his inarticulate sobbings. His hand had grasped a photograph from among the scattered documents and he was convulsively caressing it. Raising his head he looked at it with an agonized look and murmured brokenly, “Mein Kindchen—Mein Kindchen.”
It was more than Morton could bear. His lethargy dropped from him; the spell was broken, his energy returned. A second time he had been shown the hideousness of life. He knew not what to say. Then through his thoughts came the words of his own father’s cable: “Am not very well, better hurry, boy!” It was impossible for him to engage in what, after all, was but a romantic adventure.
What right had this old scion of a decayed aristocracy to appeal to him—to him, who had duties of his own, just as urgent, to perform? What right had anybody to tell him these hideous things, that grip the