independent of mother's milk or father's money. Now the question
might have been asked almost naturally. But it was not asked.

Everett Wharton was a trouble to his father,--but not an
agonizing trouble, as are some sons. His faults were not of a
nature to rob his father's cup of all its sweetness and to bring
grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. Old Wharton had never had
to ask himself whether he should now, at length, let his son fall
into the lowest abysses, or whether he should yet again struggle
to put him on his legs, again forgive him, again pay his debts,
again endeavour to forget dishonour, and place it all to the
score of thoughtless youth. Had it been so, I think that, if not
on the first or second fall, certainly on the third, the young
man would have gone into the abyss, for Mr Wharton was a stern
man, and capable of coming to a clear conclusion on things that
were nearest and even dearest to himself. But Everett Wharton
had simply shown himself to be inefficient to earn his own bread.
He had never declined even to do this,--but had simply been
inefficient. He had not declared, either by words or by actions,
that as his father was a rich man, and as he was an only son, he
would therefore do nothing. But he had tried his hand thrice,
and in each case, after but short trial, had assured his father
and his friends that the thing had not suited him. Leaving
Oxford without a degree,--for reading of the schools did not
suit him,--he had gone into a banking-house, by no means as a
mere clerk, but with an expressed proposition from his father,
backed by the assent of a partner, that he should work his way up
to wealth and a great commercial position. But six months taught
him that banking was an 'abomination', and he at once went into a
course of reading with a barrister. He remained at this till he