son about eight years younger than John; and
John himself, the unfortunate protagonist of the present history. The
daughter, Maria, was a good girl--dutiful, pious, dull, but so easily
startled that to speak to her was quite a perilous enterprise. "I don't
think I care to talk about that, if you please," she would say, and
strike the boldest speechless by her unmistakable pain; this upon all
topics--dress, pleasure, morality, politics, in which the formula was
changed to "my papa thinks otherwise," and even religion, unless it was
approached with a particular whining tone of voice. Alexander, the
younger brother, was sickly, clever, fond of books and drawing, and full
of satirical remarks. In the midst of these, imagine that natural,
clumsy, unintelligent and mirthful animal, John; mighty well-behaved in
comparison with many lads, although not up to the standard of the house
in Randolph Crescent; full of a sort of blundering affection, full of
caresses which were never very warmly received; full of sudden and loud
laughter which rang out in that still house like curses. Mr. Nicholson
himself had a great fund of humour, of the Scots order--intellectual,
turning on the observation of men; his own character, for instance--if
he could have seen it in another--would have been a rare feast to him;
but his son's empty guffaws over a broken plate, and empty, almost
light-headed remarks, struck him with pain as the indices of a weak
mind.

Outside the family John had early attached himself (much as a dog may
follow a marquess) to the steps of Alan Houston, a lad about a year
older than himself, idle, a trifle wild, the heir to a good estate which
was still in the hands of a rigorous trustee, and so royally content
with himself that he took John's devotion as a thing of course. The
intimacy was gall to Mr. Nicholson; it took his son from the house, and
he was a jealous parent; it kept him from the office, and he was a
martinet; lastly, Mr. Nicholson was ambitious for his family (in which,
and in the Disruption Principles, he entirely lived), and hated to see a
son of his play second fiddle to an idler. After some hesitation, he
ordered that the friendship should cease--an unfair command, though
seemingly inspired by the spirit of prophecy; and John, saying nothing,
continued to disobey the order under the rose.

John was nearly nineteen when he was one day dismissed rather earlier
than usual from his father's office, where he w