‘I don’t know what their opinions may be, I am sure. Probably not at all the same as mine. But I was going to mention that, in my quite early youth, I once read a little sentence which made a deep impression upon my mind. It ran thus: “Those who believe that heaven is what earth has been--a monopoly in the hands of a favoured few, would do well to reconsider their opinion; if they find that it came from their priest or their grandmother, they could not do better than reject it.”’ ‘I call that impiety,’ said she, her lips tightening. ‘Allow me to finish,’ said he, courteously. ‘I read between the lines of that little remark, and applied the principle contained in it to a great many other things beside those mentioned in the text; and the result of my continued use of that principle, as a test of institutions, opinions, and customs, has been that I am a Radical.’ ‘It is an odious and an impious principle,’ said Mrs. Mallory, with cold and bitter anger in her voice, ‘and it is a principle to which I will never give my countenance.’ The shock had been not a small one of finding that Sebastian called himself by the name she hated, as the formula of the sum of the opinions of Thanshope--Radical. But a yet greater shock was that of finding, that though he seemed so soft and pliable, spoke so indifferently, smiled so languidly, yet that she could no more bend him, nor apparently impress him, than she could stem the incoming tide of the ocean. Sebastian had risen, and was standing by the mantelpiece. Mrs. Mallory glanced at him once, sideways, and caught his eye. That was annoying in itself: it vexed and angered her because he was smiling. ‘I am sorry you don’t like it, mother,’ he said quite pleasantly and cheerfully, but not in the least apologetically; ‘and yet, do you know, considering the letters you have had from me, and my perfect frankness as to the society I have most sought and enjoyed, I think you might have been prepared for it, even if I never explicitly stated my convictions.’ This was also true. He had a most annoying way of being in the right. ‘Convictions? Oh, I dislike that talk about convictions. When people want to annoy their best friends, they call their conduct the result of convictions.’ ‘The impertinence of circumstances is certainly very great sometimes,’ assented Sebastian, leaning against the mantelpiece, and she, as she tapped her foot impatiently upon the floor, would hardly have been flattered to find that he was thinking: ‘I must let her rail against it until it begins to be tiresome--perhaps she may see the wisdom of stopping before then. I suppose one must make allowances for the disappointment of a woman whose prejudices (or convictions?) have been offended; but it would be wasting words to reason with her about it, and soon, I suppose, she will learn to accept the circumstances and make the best of it.’