If only Carlotta would be sensible and yield to the boy’s wooing.  Dunbury had cast a kind of spell upon him.  He wanted his daughter to live here.  He wanted to come here to visit her.  In his imagination he saw himself coming to Carlotta’s home—­not too big a home—­just big enough to live and grow in and raise babies in.  He saw himself playing with Carlotta’s little golden-haired violet-eyed daughters, and walking hand in hand with her small son Harrison, just such a sturdy, good-looking, wide-awake youngster as Philip Lambert had no doubt been.  Harrison Cressy’s mind dwelt fondly upon this grandson of his.  That was a boy indeed!

Carlotta’s son should not be permitted to grow up a money grubber.  There would be money of course.  One couldn’t very well avoid that under the circumstances.  The boy would be trained to the responsibilities of being Harrison Cressy’s heir.  But he should be taught to see things in their true values and proportions.  He must not grow up money-blinded like Carlotta.  He should know that money was good—­very good.  But he should know it was not the chief good, was never for an instant to be classed with the abiding things—­the real things, not to be purchased at a price.

Mr. Cressy sighed a little at that point and crept back to bed.  It occurred to him he would have to leave this latter part of his grandson’s education to the Lambert side of the family.  That was their business, just as the money part was his.

He fell asleep again and presently re-awoke in a kind of shivering panic.  What if Carlotta would not marry Philip after all?  What if it was too late already?  What if his grandson turned out to be a second Herbert Lathrop, an unobjectionable, possibly even an objectionable ass.  Perspiration beaded on the millionaire’s brow.  Why was that young idiot on the Hill waiting?  What were young men made of nowadays?  Didn’t Philip Lambert know that you could lose a woman forever if you didn’t jump lively?  Hanged if he wouldn’t call the boy this minute and tell him he just had to change his mind and go to Crest House that very morning without a moment’s delay.  Delay might be fatal.  Harrison Cressy sat up in bed, fumbled for his slippers, shook his head gloomily and returned to his place under the covers.

It wasn’t any use.  He might as well give up.  He couldn’t make Philip Lambert do anything he did not want to do.  He had tried it twice and failed ignominiously both times.  He wouldn’t tackle it again.  The boy was stronger than he was.  He had to lie back and let things take their course as best they might.

“Cheer up!  Cheer up!” counseled the robins outside, but millionaire Cressy heeded not their injunctions.  The balloon of his hopes lay pricked and flat in the dust.