The father, with a grand simplicity, either spoke of what interested himself, or maintained an unaffected silence.

The son turned in his head for some topic that should be quite safe, that would spare him fresh evidences either of my lord's inherent grossness or of the innocence of his inhumanity; treading gingerly the ways of intercourse, like a lady gathering up her skirts in a by-path.
If he made a mistake, and my lord began to abound in matter of offence, Archie drew himself up, his brow grew dark, his share of the talk expired; but my lord would faithfully and cheerfully continue to pour out the worst of himself before his silent and offended son.
"Well, it's a poor hert that never rejoices!" he would say, at the conclusion of such a nightmare interview.

"But I must get to my plew-stilts." And he would seclude himself as usual in his back room, and Archie go forth into the night and the city quivering with animosity and scorn..