rudence of speech, and frequently
indulged in criticisms of the colleagues, for whom he professed the most
unbounded respect and admiration in public.

Mary had often felt something like remorse at the thought that the first
time she read Martin Chuzzlewit, many touches in the delineation of Mr.
Pecksniff's character had reminded her of her father. She believed him
to be a just and upright man, but she could not help admitting to
herself that he was not by a long way the man the public believed him to
be. It was a subject on which she rarely permitted herself to think.
They had never got on very well together, and she acknowledged to
herself that this was as much her fault as his. It was not so much the
fact that she had a strong will and was bent on going her own way,
regardless of the opinion of others, that had been the cause of the
gulf which had grown up between them, as the dissimilarity of their
character, the absolute difference between the view which she held of
things in general, to that which the rest of her family entertained
regarding them, and the outspoken frankness with which she was in the
habit of expressing her contempt for things they praised highly.

Thinking over this matter of Mr. Hartington's purchase of the bank
shares, she found herself wondering what motive her father could have
had in permitting him to buy them, for knowing how the Squire relied
upon his opinion in all business matters, she could not doubt that the
latter could have prevented this disastrous transaction. That he must
have had some motive she felt sure, for her experience of him was amply
sufficient for her to be well aware that he never acted without a motive
of some sort. So far as she could see, no motive was apparent, but this
in no way altered her opinion.

"Cuthbert thinks it a curious affair, and no wonder," she said to
herself. "I don't suppose he has a suspicion that anything has been
wrong, and I don't suppose there has; but there may have been what they
call sharp practice. I don't think Cuthbert likes my father, but he is
the very last man to suspect anyone. It was horrid, before, being at
Fairclose--it will be ten times as bad now. The whole thing is
disgusting. It is wicked of me to think that my father could possibly do
anything that wasn't quite honorable and right--especially when there is
not the slightest reason for suspecting him. It is only, I suppose,
because I know he isn't exactly what other people th