The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. “There is some mystery about you both,” he exclaimed, with sudden earnestness. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. Wood laughed louder than ever. She was clear there were no other minds like them in all the world. "You needn't gag me," he added, "I'll not cry out. Mrs. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. "Judging from what you tell me, I've no doubt he's the illegitimate offspring of some handsome, but lowborn profligate; in which case, he'll neither have name, nor wealth for his inheritance. It has come,—and sooner than you expected. "My portrait!" echoed Jack.
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