Ernest, still in Mrs Jay’s room mused onward.  “Grown-up people,” he said to himself, “when they were ladies and gentlemen, never did naughty things, but he was always doing them.  He had heard that some grown-up people were worldly, which of course was wrong, still this was quite distinct from being naughty, and did not get them punished or scolded.  His own Papa and Mamma were not even worldly; they had often explained to him that they were exceptionally unworldly; he well knew that they had never done anything naughty since they had been children, and that even as children they had been nearly faultless.  Oh! how different from himself!  When should he learn to love his Papa and Mamma as they had loved theirs?  How could he hope ever to grow up to be as good and wise as they, or even tolerably good and wise?  Alas! never.  It could not be.  He did not love his Papa and Mamma, in spite of all their goodness both in themselves and to him.  He hated Papa, and did not like Mamma, and this was what none but a bad and ungrateful boy would do after all that had been done for him.  Besides he did not like Sunday; he did not like anything that was really good; his tastes were low and such as he was ashamed of.  He liked people best if they sometimes swore a little, so long as it was not at him.  As for his Catechism and Bible readings he had no heart in them.  He had never attended to a sermon in his life.  Even when he had been taken to hear Mr Vaughan at Brighton, who, as everyone knew, preached such beautiful sermons for children, he had been very glad when it was all over, nor did he believe he could get through church at all if it was not for the voluntary upon the organ and the hymns and chanting.  The Catechism was awful.  He had never been able to understand what it was that he desired of his Lord God and Heavenly Father, nor had he yet got hold of a single idea in connection with the word Sacrament.  His duty towards his neighbour was another bugbear.  It seemed to him that he had duties towards everybody, lying in wait for him upon every side, but that nobody had any duties towards him.  Then there was that awful and mysterious word ‘business.’  What did it all mean?  What was ‘business’?  His Papa was a wonderfully good man of business, his Mamma had often told him so—­but he should never be one.  It was hopeless, and very awful, for people were continually telling him that he would have to earn his own living.  No doubt, but how—­considering how stupid, idle, ignorant, self-indulgent, and physically puny he was?  All grown-up people were clever, except servants—­and even these were cleverer than ever he should be.  Oh, why, why, why, could not people be born into the world as grown-up persons?  Then he thought of Casabianca.  He had been examined in that poem by his father not long before.  ’When only would he leave his position?  To whom did he call?  Did he get an answer?  Why?  How many times did he call upon his father?