of medical aid in that house. She had brought up her children to wear flannel and not to overeat themselves, which last habit she considered the chief reason why people needed doctors. Lydgate pleaded for those whose fathers and mothers had overeaten themselves, but Mrs. Farebrother held that view of things dangerous: Nature was more just than that; it would be easy for any felon to say that his ancestors ought to have been hanged instead of him. If those who had bad fathers and mothers were bad themselves, they were hanged for that. There was no need to go back on what you couldn’t see.
“My mother is like old George the Third,” said the Vicar, “she objects to metaphysics.”
“I object to what is wrong, Camden. I say, keep hold of a few plain truths, and make everything square with them. When I was young, Mr. Lydgate, there never was any question about right and wrong. We knew our catechism, and that was enough; we learned our creed and our duty. Every respectable Church person had the same opinions. But now, if you speak out of the Prayerbook itself, you are liable to be contradicted.”
“That makes rather a pleasant time of it for those who like to maintain their own point,” said Lydgate.
“But my mother always gives way,” said the Vicar, slyly.
“No, no, Camden, you must not lead Mr. Lydgate into a mistake about me . I shall never show that disrespect to my parents, to give up what they taught me. Anyone may see what comes of turning. If you change once, why not twenty times?”
“A man might see good arguments for changing once, and not see them for changing again,” said Lydgate, amused with the decisive old lady.