It
was a kind of afternoon on which nice people for the most part like to be
snug at home, and Theobald was a little snappish at reflecting how many
miles he had to post before he could be at his own fireside again.
However there was nothing for it, so the pair sat quietly and watched the
roadside objects flit by them, and get greyer and grimmer as the light
faded.
Though they spoke not to one another, there was one nearer to each of
them with whom they could converse freely. "I hope," said Theobald to
himself, "I hope he'll work--or else that Skinner will make him. I don't
like Skinner, I never did like him, but he is unquestionably a man of
genius, and no one turns out so many pupils who succeed at Oxford and
Cambridge, and that is the best test. I have done my share towards
starting him well. Skinner said he had been well grounded and was very
forward. I suppose he will presume upon it now and do nothing, for his
nature is an idle one. He is not fond of me, I'm sure he is not. He
ought to be after all the trouble I have taken with him, but he is
ungrateful and selfish. It is an unnatural thing for a boy not to be
fond of his own father.
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