Ernest was happier
than he had ever been before, and was struggling upwards. The best
boys took more notice of him for his aunt's sake, and he consorted
less with those who led him into mischief.
But much as Miss Pontifex had done, she could not all at once undo
the effect of such surroundings as the boy had had at Battersby.
Much as he feared and disliked his father (though he still knew not
how much this was), he had caught much from him; if Theobald had
been kinder Ernest would have modelled himself upon him entirely,
and ere long would probably have become as thorough a little prig as
could have easily been found.
Fortunately his temper had come to him from his mother, who, when
not frightened, and when there was nothing on the horizon which
might cross the slightest whim of her husband, was an amiable,
good-natured woman. If it was not such an awful thing to say of
anyone, I should say that she meant well.
Ernest had also inherited his mother's love of building castles in
the air, and- so I suppose it must be called- her vanity. He was
very fond of showing off, and, provided he could attract attention,
cared little from whom it came, nor what it was for.
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