evil's mouthful?

Heavy Benson sat upon the wretched dinner. Hippias usually the silent
member, as if awakened by the unnatural stillness, became sprightly, like
the goatsucker owl at night and spoke much of his book, his digestion,
and his dreams, and was spared both by Algernon and Adrian. One
inconsequent dream he related, about fancying himself quite young and
rich, and finding himself suddenly in a field cropping razors around him,
when, just as he had, by steps dainty as those of a French
dancing-master, reached the middle, he to his dismay beheld a path clear
of the blood, thirsty steel-crop, which he might have taken at first had
he looked narrowly; and there he was.

Hippias's brethren regarded him with eyes that plainly said they wished
he had remained there. Sir Austin, however, drew forth his note-book, and
jotted down a reflection. A composer of aphorisms can pluck blossoms even
from a razor-prop. Was not Hippias's dream the very counterpart of
Richard's position? He, had he looked narrowly, might have taken the
clear path: he, too, had been making dainty steps till he was surrounded
by the grinning blades. And from that text Sir Austin preached to his son
when they were alone. Little Clare was still too unwell to be permitted
to attend the dessert, and father and son were soon closeted together.

It was a strange meeting. They seemed to have been separated so long. The
father took his son's hand; they sat without a word passing between them.
Silence said most. The boy did not understand his father: his father
frequently thwarted him: at times he thought his father foolish: but that
paternal pressure of his hand was eloquent to him of how warmly he was
beloved. He tried once or twice to steal his hand away, conscious it was
melting him. The spirit of his pride, and old rebellion, whispered him to
be hard, unbending, resolute. Hard he had entered his father's study:
hard he had met his father's eyes. He could not meet them now. His father
sat beside him gently; with a manner that was almost meekness, so he
loved this boy. The poor gentleman's lips moved. He was praying
internally to God for him.

By degrees an emotion awoke in the boy's bosom. Love is that blessed wand
which wins the waters from the hardness of the heart. Richard fought
against it, for the dignity of old rebellion. The tears would come; hot
and struggling over the dams of pride. Shamefully fast they began to
fall. He could no longer conce