It even occurs to him that he has not eaten his breakfast.

He so _often_ remembers this, that it does not trouble him.

To pore over his books (that are overflowing every table and chair in the uncomfortable room) until his eggs are India-rubber, and his rashers gutta-percha, is not a fresh experience.
But though this morning both eggs and rasher have attained a high place in the leather department, he enters on his sorry repast with a glad heart.
Sweet are the rebounds from jeopardy to joy! And he has so _much_ of joy! Not only has he been able to shake from his shoulders that awful incubus--and ever-present ward--but he can be sure that the absent ward is so well-off with regard to this word's goods, that he need never give her so much as a passing thought--dragged, _torn_ as that thought would be from his beloved studies.
The aunt, of course, will see about her fortune.

_He_ has has only a perfunctory duty--to see that the fortune is not squandered.

But he is safe there.