"You are on a royal road to it.

I live out of the world, but I hear from it sir.

I hear that there is not a man in the Guards--not even Lord Rockingham--who lives at the rate of imprudence you do; that there is not a man who drives such costly horses, keeps such costly mistresses, games to such desperation, fools gold away with such idiocy as you do.

You conduct yourself as if you were a millionaire, sir; and what are you?
A pauper on my bounty, and on your brother Montagu's after me--a pauper with a tinsel fashion, a gilded beggary, a Queen's commission to cover a sold-out poverty, a dandy's reputation to stave off a defaulter's future! A pauper, sir--and a Guardsman!" The coarse and cruel irony flushed out with wicked, scorching malignity; lashing and upbraiding the man who was the victim of his own unwisdom and extravagance.
A slight tinge of color came on his son's face as he heard; but he gave no sign that he was moved, no sign of impatience or anger.

He lifted his cap again, not in irony, but with a grave respect in his action that was totally contrary to his whole temperament.
"This sort of talk is very exhausting, very bad style," he said, with his accustomed gentle murmur.