It was all the same old will-shaking game and came practically to
this, that Ernest was no good, and that if he went on as he was
going on now, he would probably have to go about the streets begging
without any shoes or stockings soon after he had left school, or at
any rate, college; and that he, Theobald, and Christina were almost
too good for this world altogether.
After he had written this Theobald felt quite good-natured, and sent
to the Mrs. Thompson of the moment even more soup and wine than her
usual not illiberal allowance.
Ernest was deeply, passionately upset by his father's letter; to
think that even his dear aunt, the one person of his relations whom he
really loved, should have turned against him and thought badly of
him after all. This was the unkindest cut of all. In the hurry of
her illness Miss Pontifex, while thinking only of his welfare, had
omitted to make such small present mention of him as would have made
his father's innuendoes stingless; and her illness being infectious,
she had not seen him after its nature was known. I myself did not know
of Theobald's letter, nor think enough about my godson to guess what
might easily be his state.
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