'Well, then, just let me repeat it. He has been capitally educated; he
has always been used to good society: well, we mustn't sneer at it: good
society's better than bad, you'll allow. He has refined tastes: well,
you wouldn't like to live among crossing-sweepers, Tom. He 's clever and
accomplished, can speak and write in three languages: I wish I had his
abilities. He has good manners: well, Tom, you know you like them as
well as anybody. And now--but read for yourself.'

'Yah!' went old Tom. 'The women have been playing the fool with him
since he was a baby. I read his rigmarole? No.'

Mr. Andrew shrugged his shoulders, and opened the letter, saying: 'Well,
listen'; and then he coughed, and rapidly skimmed the introductory part.
'Excuses himself for addressing me formally--poor boy! Circumstances
have altered his position towards the world found his father's affairs in
a bad state: only chance of paying off father's debts to undertake
management of business, and bind himself to so much a year. But there,
Tom, if you won't read it, you miss the poor young fellow's character.
He says that he has forgotten his station: fancied he was superior to
trade, but hates debt; and will not allow anybody to throw dirt at his
father's name, while he can work to clear it; and will sacrifice his
pride. Come, Tom, that's manly, isn't it? I call it touching, poor
lad!'

Manly it may have been, but the touching part of it was a feature missed
in Mr. Andrew's hands. At any rate, it did not appear favourably to
impress Tom, whose chin had gathered its ominous puckers, as he inquired:

'What's the trade? he don't say.'