He is a very serious, simple, intelligent, and
tenderhearted fellow, with all sorts of odd ideas of his own, which he
produces with an admirable humility. He likes books; he reads poetry--I
even suspect him of writing it. He is interested in social problems,
and has a dozen kindly enterprises--a club, a carving class, a natural
history society, and so forth--for the benefit of the village where he
lives. He would have been an ideal country clergyman; he is an
excellent man of business, and does a good deal of county work. He is
fond of sport, too--in fact, one of those grave, affectionate, solid
men who are to be found living quietly in every part of England--a
characteristic Englishman, indeed. But the strain of romance in his
nature has for once led him wrong, and the mistake seemed irreparable.
I was at first inclined to regard him with deep compassion. He is the
soul of chivalry, and it struck me as deeply pathetic to see him
smiling indulgently, but with a sad and bewildered air, at the terrible
snobbishness, to be candid, which his lively wife's conversation
revealed. She was for ever talking about "the right people," and the
only subject which seemed to arouse her enthusiasm was the fact that
she had been received on equal terms by some of the wives of
neighbouring squires. The Major tried to give a pleasant turn to the
conversation, and when he was alone with me, after praising the
practical good sense of his wife, added, "Of course she hasn't quite
settled down yet! She has lived rather a poky life, and the change has
upset her a little.
Pages:
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221