Sir Austin elaborated his theory of the Organism and the Mechanism, for his lawyer’s edification.  At a recurrence of the word “healthy” Mr. Thompson caught him up: 

“I apprehended you!  Oh, I agree with you, Sir Austin! entirely!  Allow me to ring for my son Ripton.  I think, if you condescend to examine him, you will say that regular habits, and a diet of nothing but law-reading—­for other forms of literature I strictly interdict—­have made him all that you instance.”

Mr. Thompson’s hand was on the bell.  Sir Austin arrested him.

“Permit me to see the lad at his occupation,” said he.

Our old friend Ripton sat in a room apart with the confidential clerk, Mr. Beazley, a veteran of law, now little better than a document, looking already signed and sealed, and shortly to be delivered, who enjoined nothing from his pupil and companion save absolute silence, and sounded his praises to his father at the close of days when it had been rigidly observed—­not caring, or considering, the finished dry old document that he was, under what kind of spell a turbulent commonplace youth could be charmed into stillness for six hours of the day.  Ripton was supposed to be devoted to the study of Blackstone.  A tome of the classic legal commentator lay extended outside his desk, under the partially lifted lid of which nestled the assiduous student’s head—­law being thus brought into direct contact with his brain-pan.  The office-door opened, and he heard not; his name was called, and he remained equally moveless.  His method of taking in Blackstone seemed absorbing as it was novel.

“Comparing notes, I daresay,” whispered Mr. Thompson to Sir Austin.  “I call that study!”

The confidential clerk rose, and bowed obsequious senility.

“Is it like this every day, Beazley?” Mr. Thompson asked with parental pride.

“Ahem!” the old clerk replied, “he is like this every day, sir.  I could not ask more of a mouse.”

Sir Austin stepped forward to the desk.  His proximity roused one of Ripton’s senses, which blew a pall to the others.  Down went the lid of the desk.  Dismay, and the ardours of study, flashed together in Ripton’s face.  He slouched from his perch with the air of one who means rather to defend his position than welcome a superior, the right hand in his waistcoat pocket fumbling a key, the left catching at his vacant stool.

Sir Austin put two fingers on the youth’s shoulder, and said, leaning his head a little on one side, in a way habitual to him, “I am glad to find my son’s old comrade thus profitably occupied.  I know what study is myself.  But beware of prosecuting it too excitedly!  Come! you must not be offended at our interruption; you will soon take up the thread again.  Besides, you know, you must get accustomed to the visits of your client.”

So condescending and kindly did this speech sound to Mr. Thompson, that, seeing Ripton still preserve his appearance of disorder and sneaking defiance, he thought fit to nod and frown at the youth, and desired him to inform the baronet what particular part of Blackstone he was absorbed in mastering at that moment.