The experience of that Whit-sunday had been too
rich not to be of enduring importance to his development in any case;
but the behaviour of Uncle Henry made it more important, because all
this criticism helped Mark to put his opinions into shape, consolidated
the position he had taken up, sharpened his determination to advance
along the path he had discovered for himself, and gave him an immediate
target for arrows that might otherwise have been shot into the air until
his quiver was empty.
"Mr. Ogilvie knew my father."
"That has nothing to do with the case," said Uncle Henry.
"I think it has."
"Do not be insolent, Mark. I've noticed lately a most unpleasant note in
your voice, an objectionably defiant note which I simply will not
tolerate."
"But do you really mean that I'm not to go and see Mr. Ogilvie?"
"It would have been more courteous if Mr. Ogilvie had given himself the
trouble of writing to me, your guardian, before inviting you out to
lunch and I don't know what not besides."
"He said he would write to you."
"I don't want to embark on a correspondence with him," Uncle Henry
exclaimed petulantly. "I know the man by reputation. A bigoted
Ritualist. A Romanizer of the worst type. He'll only fill your head with
a lot of effeminate nonsense, and that at a time when it's particularly
necessary for you to concentrate upon your work.
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