‘Have you so proved it to be a failing of mine, Tom?’ said Louisa, showing no other sense of his discontent and ill-nature.
‘You know whether the cap fits you, Loo,’ returned her brother sulkily. ‘If it does, you can wear it.’
‘Tom is misanthropical to-day, as all bored people are now and then,’ said Mr Harthouse. ‘Don’t believe him, Mrs Bounderby. He knows much better. I shall disclose some of his opinions of you, privately expressed to me, unless he relents a little.’
‘At all events, Mr Harthouse,’ said Tom, softening in his admiration of his patron, but shaking his head sullenly too, ‘you can’t tell her that I ever praised her for being mercenary. I may have praised her for being the contrary, and I should do it again, if I had as good reason. However, never mind this now; it’s not very interesting to you and I am sick of the subject.’
They walked on to the house, where Louisa quitted her visitor’s arm and went in. He stood looking after her, as she ascended the steps, and passed into the shadow of the door; then put his hand upon her brother’s shoulder again, and invited him with a confidential nod to a walk in the garden.
‘Tom, my fine fellow, I want to have a word with you.’
They had stopped among a disorder of roses — it was part of Mr Bounderby’s humility to keep Nickits’s roses on a reduced scale — and Tom sat down on a terrace-parapet, plucking buds and picking them to pieces; while his powerful Familiar stood over him, with a foot upon the parapet, and his figure easily resting on the arm supported by that knee. They were just visible from her window. Perhaps she saw them.
‘Tom, what’s the matter?’
‘Oh! Mr Harthouse,’ said Tom with a groan, ‘I am hard up, and bothered out of my life.’
‘My good fellow, so am I.’
‘You!’ returned Tom. ‘You are the picture of independence. Mr Harthouse, I am in a horrible mess. You have no idea what a state I have got myself into — what a state my sister might have got me out of, if she would only have done it.’
He took to biting the rose-buds now, and tearing them away from his teeth with a hand that trembled like an infirm old man’s. After one exceedingly observant look at him, his companion relapsed into his lightest air.
‘Tom, you are inconsiderate: you expect too much of your sister. You have had money of her, you dog, you know you have.’
‘Well, Mr Harthouse, I know I have. How else was I to get it? Here’s old Bounderby always boasting that at my age he lived upon twopence a month, or something of that sort. Here’s my father drawing what he calls a line, and tying me down to it from a baby, neck and heels. Here’s my mother who never has anything of her own, except her complaints. What is a fellow to do for money, and where am I to look for it, if not to my sister?’
He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by dozens. Mr Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat.
‘But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it — ’
‘Not got it, Mr Harthouse? I don’t say she has got it. I may have wanted more than she was likely to have got. But then she ought to get it. She could get it. It’s of no use pretending to make a secret of