Sink or swim? : $b a novel; vol. 3/3Houstoun, Mrs. (Matilda Charlotte)
General
Sink or swim? : $b a novel; vol. 3/3
Houstoun, Mrs. (Matilda Charlotte)
English fiction -- 19th century
“Well?” said Mr. Duberly interrogatively, for the terms on which he
lived with his son-in-law warranted the reality as well as the
appearance of curiosity,--“well, what says the enemy? We’re never going
to say die, eh? I’ll tell you what, Arthur; rather than that, I’d pay
five thousand pounds for you to the lawyers--five thousand! I’d pay ten
to help keep your rights. It isn’t the money, but the principle that I
think so much of. But, I say, what _does_ the old quill-driver write to
you about? Let’s see the letter; or if you’d rather not, I--”
“O no, sir; take it. It isn’t that, but it’s all such a beastly bore.
You see he says that Houndsford’s opinion is against my chance; and if
it is, what’s the use of not giving in? I don’t like the scandal of the
thing, fighting a case against one’s own mother; and--”
“Stuff and nonsense, boy; it’s milady’s doing, and not yours. It’s _her_
that’s setting it all a-going; and if you’ll take my advice, you’ll not
give in till you’re obliged to. However, there’s time enough to talk of
that by and by. Sophy’s been asking for you more than once, poor girl,
whilst you was away; and as for the boy, he’s been holloring like a good
’un. _His_ lungs are sound enough, at any rate, bless him!” And
“grandpapa,” after fixing his gold spectacles once more upon his nose,
returned to the perusal of the newspaper, in which his soul delighted.
Perhaps among the minor difficulties of social life there are none which
are more often or more painfully felt than that almost insurmountable
one of concealing from the watchful eyes of affection the heavy cares
and inward anxieties from which we may be suffering. By the weaker sex,
who are trained from infancy to the art of hiding their feelings under
the cloak of reticence and decorum, the task is comparatively an easy
one. Almost unconsciously, and as an affair of habit, they daily
practise it, till practice makes perfect, and art becomes to them a
second, and sometimes a more winning and graceful nature. But with men
it is widely different. Even the best performers among them are apt to
forget, to stumble over, or to overact their parts; and though they may
sometimes succeed in deceiving one of their own sex, it rarely happens
that the least observant of the other does not possess the moderate
clear-sightedness requisite to lay a finger on the truth at once.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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