Ernest was happier than he had ever been before, and was
struggling upwards. The best boys took more notice of him for his aunt's
sake, and he consorted less with those who led him into mischief.
But much as Miss Pontifex had done, she could not all at once undo the
effect of such surroundings as the boy had had at Battersby. Much as he
feared and disliked his father (though he still knew not how much this
was), he had caught much from him; if Theobald had been kinder Ernest
would have modelled himself upon him entirely, and ere long would
probably have become as thorough a little prig as could have easily been
found.
Fortunately his temper had come to him from his mother, who, when not
frightened, and when there was nothing on the horizon which might cross
the slightest whim of her husband, was an amiable, good-natured woman. If
it was not such an awful thing to say of anyone, I should say that she
meant well.
Ernest had also inherited his mother's love of building castles in the
air, and--so I suppose it must be called--her vanity. He was very fond
of showing off, and, provided he could attract attention, cared little
from whom it came, nor what it was for.
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