poor
young rogue locked up in his desk generally, only venturing to wear them
when he was out of his father's sight or of Mr. Binnie's, whose shrewd
eyes watched him very keenly.

Mr. Clive used to leave home every day shortly after noon, when he
was supposed to betake himself to Gandish's studio. But was the young
gentleman always at the drawing-board copying from the antique when his
father supposed him to be so devotedly engaged? I fear his place was
sometimes vacant. His friend J. J. worked every day and all day. Many
a time the steady little student remarked his patron's absence, and no
doubt gently remonstrated with him, but when Clive did come to his work
he executed it with remarkable skill and rapidity; and Ridley was too
fond of him to say a word at home regarding the shortcomings of the
youthful scapegrace. Candid readers may sometimes have heard their
friend Jones's mother lament that her darling was working too hard at
college: or Harry's sisters express their anxiety lest his too rigorous
attendance in chambers (after which he will persist in sitting up all
night reading those dreary law books which cost such an immense sum of
money) should undermine dear Henry's health; and to such acute persons
a word is sufficient to indicate young Mr. Clive Newcome's proceedings.
Meanwhile his father, who knew no more of the world than Harry's simple
sisters or Jones's fond mother, never doubted that all Clive's doings
were right, and that his boy was the best of boys.

"If that young man goes on as charmingly as he has begun," Clive's
cousin, Barnes Newcome, said of his kinsman, "he will be a paragon. I
saw him last night at Vauxhall in company with young Moss, whose father
does bills and keeps the bric-a-brac shop in Wardour Street. Two or
three other gentlemen, probably young old-clothes-men, who had concluded
for the day the labours of the bag, joined Mr. Newcome and his friend,
and they partook of rack-punch in an arbour. He is a delightful youth,
cousin Clive, and I feel sure he is about to be an honour to our
family."

CHAPTER XIX. The Colonel at Home

Our good Colonel's house had received a coat of paint, which, like
Madame Latour's rouge in her latter days, only served to make her
careworn face look more ghastly. The kitchens were gloomy. The stables
were gloomy. Great black passages; cracked conservatory; dilapidated
bathroom, with melancholy waters moaning and fizzing from the cistern;
the grea