‘My father,’ said Lord Montacute, and moving, he drew a chair to the table, and seated himself by the duke, ‘you possess and have a right to my confidence. I ought not to have said that I doubted about what was good; for I know you.’ ‘Sons like you make good fathers.’ ‘It is not always so,’ said Lord Montacute; ‘you have been to me more than a father, and I bear to you and to my mother a profound and fervent affection; an affection,’ he added, in a faltering tone, ‘that is rarer, I believe, in this age than it was in old days. I feel it at this moment more deeply,’ he continued, in a firmer tone, ‘because I am about to propose that we should for a time separate.’ The duke turned pale, and leant forward in his chair, but did not speak. ‘You have proposed to me to-day,’ continued Lord Montacute, after a momentary pause, ‘to enter public life. I do not shrink from its duties. On the contrary, from the position in which I am born, still more from the impulse of my nature, I am desirous to fulfil them. I have meditated on them, I may say, even for years. But I cannot find that it is part of my duty to maintain the order of things, for I will not call it system, which at present prevails in our country. It seems to me that it cannot last, as nothing can endure, or ought to endure, that is not founded upon principle; and its principle I have not discovered. In nothing, whether it be religion, or government, or manners, sacred or political or social life, do I find faith; and if there be no faith, how can there be duty? Is there such a thing as religious truth? Is there such a thing as political right? Is there such a thing as social propriety? Are these facts, or are they mere phrases? And if they be facts, where are they likely to be found in England? Is truth in our Church? Why, then, do you support dissent? Who has the right to govern? The monarch? You have robbed him of his prerogative. The aristocracy? You confess to me that we exist by sufferance. The people? They themselves tell you that they are nullities. Every session of that Parliament in which you wish to introduce me, the method by which power is distributed is called in question, altered, patched up, and again impugned. As for our morals, tell me, is charity the supreme virtue, or the greatest of errors? Our social system ought to depend on a clear conception of this point. Our morals differ in different counties, in different towns, in different streets, even in different Acts of Parliament. What is moral in London is immoral in Montacute; what is crime among the multitude is only vice among the few.’ ‘You are going into first principles,’ said the duke, much surprised. ‘Give me then second principles,’ replied his son; ‘give me any.’