The mother's feeling was less noble,--or perhaps, it might better be said, more open to censure. The boy, who had been beautiful as a star, had ever been the cynosure of her eyes, the one thing on which her heart had rivetted itself. Even during the career of his folly she had hardly ventured to say a word to him with the purport of stopping him on his road to ruin. In everything she had spoilt him as a boy, and in everything she still spoilt him as a man. She was almost proud of his vices, and had taken delight in hearing of doings which if not vicious of themselves had been ruinous from their extravagance. She had so indulged him that even in her own presence he was never ashamed of his own selfishness or apparently conscious of the injustice which he did to others.

The mother's feeling was more open to blame. Even on his road to ruin she had hardly said a word to stop him. She had spoilt him as a boy, and she spoilt him as a man. She was almost proud of his vices and extravagances. She had so indulged him that he was never ashamed of his selfishness or conscious of the injustice which he did to others.
