He had a hearty respect for Dick as a lad of parts. Dick had
a respect for his father as the best of men, tempered by the
politic revolt of a youth who has to see to his own
independence. Whenever the pair argued, they came to an open
rupture; and arguments were frequent, for they were both
positive, and both loved the work of the intelligence. It
was a treat to hear Mr. Naseby defending the Church of
England in a volley of oaths, or supporting ascetic morals
with an enthusiasm not entirely innocent of port wine. Dick
used to wax indignant, and none the less so because, as his
father was a skilful disputant, he found himself not seldom
in the wrong. On these occasions, he would redouble in
energy, and declare that black was white, and blue yellow,
with much conviction and heat of manner; but in the morning
such a licence of debate weighed upon him like a crime, and
he would seek out his father, where he walked before
breakfast on a terrace overlooking all the vale of Thyme.
'I have to apologise, sir, for last night - ' he would begin.
'Of course you have,' the old gentleman would cut in
cheerfully. 'You spoke like a fool. Say no more about it.'
'You do not understand me, sir. I refer to a particular
point. I confess there is much force in your argument from
the doctrine of possibilities.'
'Of course there is,' returned his father.
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