his own heart he
exulted over and cherished every bad design as it had birth. The only
scriptural admonition that Ralph Nickleby heeded, in the letter, was
'know thyself.' He knew himself well, and choosing to imagine that all
mankind were cast in the same mould, hated them; for, though no man
hates himself, the coldest among us having too much self-love for that,
yet most men unconsciously judge the world from themselves, and it will
be very generally found that those who sneer habitually at human
nature, and affect to despise it, are among its worst and least pleasant
samples.

But the present business of these adventures is with Ralph himself, who
stood regarding Newman Noggs with a heavy frown, while that worthy took
off his fingerless gloves, and spreading them carefully on the palm of
his left hand, and flattening them with his right to take the creases
out, proceeded to roll them up with an absent air as if he were utterly
regardless of all things else, in the deep interest of the ceremonial.

'Gone out of town!' said Ralph, slowly. 'A mistake of yours. Go back
again.'

'No mistake,' returned Newman. 'Not even going; gone.'

'Has he turned girl or baby?' muttered Ralph, with a fretful gesture.

'I don't know,' said Newman, 'but he's gone.'

The repetition of the word 'gone' seemed to afford Newman Noggs
inexpressible delight, in proportion as it annoyed Ralph Nickleby. He
uttered the word with a full round emphasis, dwelling upon it as long
as he decently could, and when he could hold out no longer without
attracting observation, stood gasping it to himself as if even that were
a satisfaction.

'And WHERE has he gone?' said Ralph.

'France,' replied Newman. 'Danger of another attack of erysipelas--a
worse attack--in the head. So the doctors ordered him off. And he's
gone.'

'And Lord Frederick--?' began Ralph.

'He's gone too,' replied Newman.

'And he carries his drubbing with him, does he?' said Ralph, turning
away; 'pockets his bruises, and sneaks off without the retaliation of a
word, or seeking the smallest reparation!'

'He's too ill,' said Newman.

'Too ill!' repeated Ralph. 'Why I would have it if I were dying; in that
case I should only be the more determined to have it, and that without
delay--I mean if I were he. But he's too ill! Poor Sir Mulberry! Too
ill!'

Uttering these words with supreme contempt and great irritation of
manner, Ralph signed hastily to Newman to leave the room;