It was a kind of afternoon on which nice
people for the most part like to be snug at home, and Theobald was a
little snappish at reflecting how many miles he had to post before
he could be at his own fireside again. However, there was nothing
for it, so the pair sat quietly and watched the roadside objects
flit by them, and get greyer and grimmer as the light faded.
Though they spoke not to one another, there was one nearer to each
of them with whom they could converse freely. "I hope," said
Theobald to himself, "I hope he'll work- or else that Skinner will
make him. I don't like Skinner, I never did like him, but he is
unquestionably a man of genius, and no one turns out so many pupils
who succeed at Oxford and Cambridge, and that is the best test. I have
done my share towards starting him well. Skinner said he had been well
grounded and was very forward. I suppose he will presume upon it now
and do nothing, for his nature is an idle one. He is not fond of me,
I'm sure he is not. He ought to be after all the trouble I have
taken with him, but he is ungrateful and selfish. It is an unnatural
thing for a boy not to be fond of his own father. If he was fond of me
I should be fond of him, but I cannot like a son who, I am sure,
dislikes me.
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