That young upstart had not learned his lesson yet--a harsh lesson, it was true, and one not understood by the world at large--but then the world was not responsible for his son's bringing up.

When the boy had learned it, and was willing to acknowledge the error of his ways, then, perhaps, he might kill the fatted calf--that is, of course, if the prodigal should return on all fours and with no stilted and untenable ideas about his rights--ideas that St.George, of course, was instilling into him every chance he got.
So far, however, he had had to admit to himself that while he had kept steady watch of the line of hills skirting his mental horizon, up to the present moment no young gentleman in a dilapidated suit of clothes, inverted waist measure, and lean legs had shown himself above the sky line.

On the contrary, if all reports were true--and Alec omitted no opportunity to keep him advised of Marse Harry's every movement--the young Lord of Moorlands was having the time of his life, even if his sweetheart had renounced him and his father forced him into exile.

Not only had he found a home and many comforts at Temple's--being treated as an honored guest alongside of such men as Kennedy and Latrobe, Pancoast, and the others, but now that St.George had publicly declared him to be his heir, these distinctive marks of his approbation were likely to continue.

Nor could he interfere, even if he wished to--which, of course, he did not, and never could so long as he lived....