Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow to suppose that this happy
change in all his circumstances arose from his own generous and
manly disposition: he chose, from some perverseness, to attribute
his good fortune to the sole agency and benevolence of little George
Osborne, to whom henceforth he vowed such a love and affection as is
only felt by children--such an affection, as we read in the charming
fairy-book, uncouth Orson had for splendid young Valentine his
conqueror. He flung himself down at little Osborne's feet, and
loved him. Even before they were acquainted, he had admired Osborne
in secret. Now he was his valet, his dog, his man Friday. He
believed Osborne to be the possessor of every perfection, to be the
handsomest, the bravest, the most active, the cleverest, the most
generous of created boys. He shared his money with him: bought him
uncountable presents of knives, pencil-cases, gold seals, toffee,
Little Warblers, and romantic books, with large coloured pictures of
knights and robbers, in many of which latter you might read
inscriptions to George Sedley Osborne, Esquire, from his attached
friend William Dobbin--the which tokens of homage George received
very graciously, as became his superior merit.
So that Lieutenant Osborne, when coming to Russell Square on the day
of the Vauxhall party, said to the ladies, "Mrs.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84