“Oh, hush, Cyril, my boy,” panted the invalid. “Eli, my dear, pray be calm. This hurts me—hurts me more than I can tell you.”
“I am sorry, my dear, very sorry,” cried the Rector, excitedly; “but it must be stopped. I cannot allow matters to go on as they do. It is terrible. I feel at every turn as if I were being disgraced. I shiver as I go down the town or make a call, for fear that I should have to encounter some fresh disgrace brought upon us by our own boys.”
“What’s the matter with the governor, ma, dear?” said the young man, mockingly. “Has Frank been up to some fresh games?”
“Oh, hush, my dear boy,” cried the poor woman, imploringly.
“I’ll be as quiet as I can, dear,” replied Cyril; “but there are bounds to everything. I am not a child.”
“No, sir, but you act like one—like a disobedient child,” cried his father. “No matter what is done for you, back you come home to idle and lounge away your existence. The idea of the nobility of labour never seems to have dawned in your mind.”
“Never,” replied Cyril, calmly. “Nobility of labour, indeed! Why, father, what’s the good of quoting stuff like that to me out of one of your old sermons?”
“You are utterly wasting your life, sir.”
“Not I, father,” retorted Cyril. “I am rather enjoying it. Let those work who are obliged. Why should I make myself a slave? I like my existence very well as it is, and don’t mean to bother.”
“It is disgraceful,” cried the Rector, whose usually bland face was now fierce with anger.