In the shadowy library light, when there was dawn out of doors, Edward sat with his father, and both were silent, for Edward had opened his heart, and his father had breathed some of the dry stock of wisdom on it.  Many times Edward rose to go; and Sir William signalled with his finger that he should stay:  an impassive motion, not succeeded by speech.  And, in truth, the baronet was revolving such a problem as a long career of profitable banking refreshed by classical exercitations does not help us to solve.  There sat the son of his trust and his pride, whose sound and equal temperament, whose precocious worldly wit, whose precise and broad intelligence, had been the visionary comfort of his paternal days to come; and his son had told him, reiterating it in language special and exact as that of a Chancery barrister unfolding his case to the presiding judge, that he had deceived and wronged an under-bred girl of the humbler classes; and that, after a term of absence from her, he had discovered her to be a part of his existence, and designed “You would marry her?” Sir William asked, though less forcibly than if he could have put on a moral amazement.

“That is my intention, sir, with your permission,” Edward replied firmly, and his father understood that he had never known this young man, and dealt virtually with a stranger in his son—­as shrewd a blow as the vanity which is in paternal nature may have to endure.

He could not fashion the words, “Cerritus fuit,” though he thought the thing in both tenses:  Edward’s wits had always been too clearly in order:  and of what avail was it to repeat great and honoured prudential maxims to a hard-headed fellow, whose choice was to steer upon the rocks?  He did remark, in an undertone,—­

“The ‘misce stultitiam’ seems to be a piece of advice you have adopted too literally.  I quote what you have observed of some one else.”

“It is possible, sir,” said Edward.  “I was not particularly sparing when I sat in the high seat.  ’Non eadem est aetas, non mens.”  I now think differently.”

“I must take your present conduct as the fruit of your premature sagacity, I suppose.  By the same rule, your cousin Algernon may prove to be some comfort to his father, in the end.”

“Let us hope he will, sir.  His father will not have deserved it so well as mine.”

“The time is morning,” said Sir William, looking at his watch, and bestowing, in the bitterness of his reflections, a hue of triumph on the sleep of his brother upstairs.  “You are your own master, Edward.  I will detain you no more.”

Edward shook his limbs, rejoicing.

“You prepare for a life of hard work,” Sir William resumed, not without some instigation to sternness from this display of alacrity.  “I counsel you to try the Colonial Bar.”

Edward read in the first sentence, that his income would be restricted; and in the second, that his father’s social sphere was no longer to be his.