Why not take the advice and save Maxfield and the family name, and himself--ay, and Rosalind--from the discredit that threatened.

He could yet be generous, beyond his hopes, to the prodigal.

He would pay to get him abroad, to-- to-- A flush of shame mounted to the boy's cheeks as he suddenly discovered himself listening to these unworthy suggestions.
"Heaven help me," he said, "to be a man." It was a brief inward fight, though a sore one.
Roger Ingleton, weak in body, often dull of wit and infirm of temper, had yet certain old-fashioned ideas of his own as to how it behoves a gentleman to act.
He cherished, too, certain still older-fashioned ideas as to how when a Christian gentleman wants help and courage he may obtain it.

And he was endowed with that glorious obstinacy which, when it once satisfies itself on a question of right and wrong, declines to listen to argument.
Therefore when, later than usual, he joined the family party at breakfast, it was with a grim sense of a misery ahead to be faced, but by no manner of means to be avoided.
For fear the reader should be disposed to rank Roger at once among the saints, let it be added that he took his place in as genuine a bad temper as a strong mind and a weak body between them are capable of generating.
"Roger, my dear boy," said the captain mournfully, as became the weeds he wore, "you are looking poorly.

You need a change.