My father's tone of thought and feeling, I now felt myself at a great distance from: greater, indeed, than a full and calm explanation and reconsideration on both sides, might have shown to exist in reality. But my father was not one with whom calm and full explanations on fundamental points of doctrine could be expected, at least with one whom he might consider as, in some sort, a deserter from his standard. Fortunately we were almost always in strong agreement on the political questions of the day which engrossed a large part of his interest and of his conversation. On those matters of opinion on which we differed, we talked little. He knew that the habit of thinking for myself, which his mode of education had fostered, sometimes led me to opinions different from his, and he perceived from time to time that I did not always tell him how different. I expected no good, but only pain to both of us, from discussing our differences: and I never expressed them but when he gave utterance to some opinion of feeling repugnant to mine, in a manner which would have made it disingenuousness on my part to remain silent.
I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that I saw no change in him.
'There is God to trust in!' she replied.
Bond felt the car surge forward. Ernie Cureo was half lying along the front seat, driving with one hand and with his eyes watching the road ahead from just above the dash.
For the Graphic, in 1873, I wrote a little story about Australia. Christmas at the antipodes is of course midsummer, and I was not loth to describe the troubles to which my own son had been subjected, by the mingled accidents of heat and bad neighbours, on his station in the bush. So I wrote Harry Heathcote of Gangoil, and was well through my labour on that occasion. I only wish I may have no worse success in that which now hangs over my head.
"Serves him right," she said. "I've never trusted him. But what did Sir Hugo say?"
George Lewes — with his wife, whom all the world knows as George Eliot — has also been and still is one of my dearest friends. He is, I think, the acutest critic I know — and the severest. His severity, however, is a fault. His intention to be honest, even when honesty may give pain, has caused him to give pain when honesty has not required it. He is essentially a doubter, and has encouraged himself to doubt till the faculty of trusting has almost left him. I am not speaking of the personal trust which one man feels in another, but of that confidence in literary excellence, which is, I think, necessary for the full enjoyment of literature. In one modern writer he did believe thoroughly. Nothing can be more charming than the unstinted admiration which he has accorded to everything that comes from the pen of the wonderful woman to whom his lot has been united. To her name I shall recur again when speaking of the novelists of the present day.
That last day I had expected the Phanceys to be rather nice to me. After all, we had got on all right together and I had gone out of my way to be helpful about everything. But, oddly enough, they were just the reverse. Mrs. Phancey ordered me about as if I was a maid, and Jed became tough and nasty in his leching, using filthy words even when his wife was in earshot, and quite openly, reaching for my body whenever he got within range. I couldn't understand the change. It was as if they had had what they wanted out of me and could now discard me with contempt-and even, it seemed to me, almost with loathing. I got so furious that I finally went to Mrs. Phancey and said I was going and could I have my money? But she just laughed and said, Oh, no. Mr. Sanguinetti would be giving me that. They couldn't take a chance of the cutlery being short when he came to count it. After this, and rather than face them at supper, I made myself some jam sandwiches and went and locked myself in my cabin and prayed for the morning, when they would be gone. And, as I have said, six o'clock did at last come and I saw the last of the monsters.