‘I don’t understand you,’ said my mother.

’You can understand nothing that would seem for a moment to impugn the conduct of that child.  I am not, however, so blind; want of discrimination was the word, and it both sounds well, and is expressive.  It appears that, since he has been placed where is, he has been guilty of the grossest blunders; only the other day, Mr. S—–­ told me, as he was engaged in close conversation with one of his principal clients, the boy came to tell him that a person wanted particularly to speak with him; and, on going out, he found a lamentable figure with one eye, who came to ask for charity; whom, nevertheless, the lad had ushered into a private room, and installed in an arm-chair, like a justice of the peace, instead of telling him to go about his business—­now what did that show, but a total want of discrimination?’

‘I wish we may never have anything worse to reproach him with,’ said my mother.

‘I don’t know what worse we could reproach him with,’ said my father; ’I mean of course as far as his profession is concerned; discrimination is the very keystone; if he treated all people alike, he would soon become a beggar himself; there are grades in society as well as in the army; and according to those grades we should fashion our behaviour, else there would instantly be an end of all order and discipline.  I am afraid that the child is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors he is apt to be unbending enough; I don’t believe that would do in the world; I am sure it would not in the army.  He told me another anecdote with respect to his behaviour, which shocked me more than the other had done.  It appears that his wife, who by the bye, is a very fine woman, and highly fashionable, gave him permission to ask the boy to tea one evening, for she is herself rather partial to the lad; there had been a great dinner party there that day, and there were a great many fashionable people, so the boy went and behaved very well and modestly for some time, and was rather noticed, till, unluckily, a very great gentleman, an archdeacon I think, put some questions to him, and, finding that he understood the languages, began talking to him about the classics.  What do you think? the boy had the impertinence to say that the classics were much overvalued, and amongst other things that some horrid fellow or other, some Welshman I think (thank God it was not an Irishman), was a better poet than Ovid; the company were of course horrified; the archdeacon, who is seventy years of age, and has seven thousand a year, took snuff and turned away.  Mrs. S—–­ turned up her eyes, Mr. S—–­, however, told me with his usual good-nature (I suppose to spare my feelings) that he rather enjoyed the thing, and thought it a capital joke.’

‘I think so too,’ said my mother.

‘I do not,’ said my father; ’that a boy of his years should entertain an opinion of his own—­I mean one which militates against all established authority—­is astounding; as well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an unfavourable opinion on the manual and platoon exercise; the idea is preposterous; the lad is too independent by half.  I never yet knew one of an independent spirit get on in the army, the secret of success in the army is the spirit of subordination.’