ther. I like him to be seen
at Grandison. That is all very right. Grandison is a first-rate
establishment, where he is certain of meeting persons of his own class,
with whom circumstances unhappily,' and here Sir Ratcliffe sighed,
'debar him from mixing; and your father, Constance, is a very good sort
of man. I like your father, Constance, you know, very much. No person
ever could be more courteous to me than he has ever been. I have no
complaints to make of him, Constance; or your brother, or indeed of
any member of your family. I like them all. Persons more kind, or more
thoroughly bred, I am sure I never knew. And I think they like us. They
appear to me to be always really glad to see us, and to be unaffectedly
sorry when we quit them. I am sure I should be very happy if it were in
my power to return their hospitality, and welcome them at Armine: but it
is useless to think of that. God only knows whether we shall be able to
remain here ourselves. All I want to make you feel, my love, is, that if
you are building any castle in that little brain of yours on the ground
of expectations from Grandison, trust me you will be disappointed, my
dear, you will, indeed.' 'But, my love--'

'If your father die to-morrow, my dear, he will not leave us a shilling.
And who can complain? I cannot. He has always been very frank. I
remember when we were going to marry, and I was obliged to talk to
him about your portion; I remember it as if it were only yesterday; I
remember his saying, with the most flattering smile in the world,
"I wish the 5,000L., Sir Ratcliffe, were 50,000L., for your sake;
particularly as it will never be in my power to increase it."'

'But, my dear Ratcliffe, surely he may do something for his favourite,
Ferdinand?'

'My dear Constance, there you are again! Why _favourite_? I hate the
very word. Your father is a good-natured man, a very good-natured man:
he is one of the best-natured men I ever was acquainted with. He has not
a single care in the world, and he thinks nobody else has; and what is
more, my dear, nobody ever could persuade him that anybody else has. He
has no idea of our situation; he never could form an idea of it. If
I chose to attempt to make him understand it he would listen with the
greatest politeness, shrug his shoulders at the end of the story, tell
me to keep up my spirits, and order another bottle of Madeira in order
that he might illustrate his precept by practice. He is a good-natured