with mortifying comments on his whole career--to have his costume
examined, his collar pulled up, the presence of his mittens verified,
and to be taken out and brought home in custody, like an infant with
a nurse. At the thought of it his soul would swell with venom, and he
would make haste to hang up his hat and coat and the detested mittens,
and slink upstairs to Julia and his notebooks. The drawing-room at least
was sacred from Morris; it belonged to the old man and the young girl;
it was there that she made her dresses; it was there that he inked
his spectacles over the registration of disconnected facts and the
calculation of insignificant statistics.

Here he would sometimes lament his connection with the tontine. 'If it
were not for that,' he cried one afternoon, 'he would not care to keep
me. I might be a free man, Julia. And I could so easily support myself
by giving lectures.'

'To be sure you could,' said she; 'and I think it one of the meanest
things he ever did to deprive you of that amusement. There were those
nice people at the Isle of Cats (wasn't it?) who wrote and asked you so
very kindly to give them an address. I did think he might have let you
go to the Isle of Cats.'

'He is a man of no intelligence,' cried Joseph. 'He lives here literally
surrounded by the absorbing spectacle of life, and for all the good
it does him, he might just as well be in his coffin. Think of his
opportunities! The heart of any other young man would burn within him
at the chance. The amount of information that I have it in my power
to convey, if he would only listen, is a thing that beggars language,
Julia.'