'
'A mere fortune-hunter!' cried the son, indignantly.
'What in the devil's name, Ned, would you be!' returned the father. 'All
men are fortune-hunters, are they not? The law, the church, the court,
the camp--see how they are all crowded with fortune-hunters, jostling
each other in the pursuit. The stock-exchange, the pulpit, the
counting-house, the royal drawing-room, the senate,--what but
fortune-hunters are they filled with? A fortune-hunter! Yes. You
ARE one; and you would be nothing else, my dear Ned, if you were
the greatest courtier, lawyer, legislator, prelate, or merchant, in
existence. If you are squeamish and moral, Ned, console yourself with
the reflection that at the very worst your fortune-hunting can make but
one person miserable or unhappy. How many people do you suppose these
other kinds of huntsmen crush in following their sport--hundreds at a
step? Or thousands?'
The young man leant his head upon his hand, and made no answer.
'I am quite charmed,' said the father rising, and walking slowly to and
fro--stopping now and then to glance at himself in the mirror, or survey
a picture through his glass, with the air of a connoisseur, 'that we
have had this conversation, Ned, unpromising as it was.
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