“What, for letting his name slip out by accident?” said Hamilton, scornfully; “you heard how he let out Casson's just now—you wouldn't blame him for that, I imagine?”
“No,” said Frank; “and I can tell you that Mrs. Paget (no offence to her nephew) is one of those dear retailers of all descriptions of news, that would worm a secret out of a toad in a stone, and Louis hasn't ready wit enough to manage her.”
“He has no presence of mind, and a little vanity,” said Hamilton.
“He is as vain as a peacock—a lump of vanity!” exclaimed Norman; “without an atom of moral courage to stand any persuasion short of being desired to put his head into the fire—a perfect coward!”
“And where did you get your moral courage, Mr. Norman?” said Hamilton, with deliberate gravity; “we may send you to the heathen for reproof:
‘If thou hast strength, 'twas heaven that strength bestowed,
For know, vain man, thy valor is from God.’ ”
Norman was on the point of speaking, but Hamilton continued in the same calm, irresistible manner:
“If Louis is vain, we are proud; and I should like to know which is the worst,—having an exalted opinion of ourselves, or craving the exalted opinion of others? We have not behaved well to Louis, poor fellow! we first spoiled him by over-indulgence and flattery, and when this recoils upon us, we visit all the evil heavily on him.”
“I only want to remark,” said Meredith, “that we had a right to expect more consistency in a professed saint.”