rcely be expected to take a dispassionate view of things."

At first I felt almost as if I could hate a "dispassionate view of
things." Things are made to arouse our passion, so long as meanness and
villainy prevail; and if old men, knowing the balance of the world,
can contemplate them all "dispassionately," more clearly than any thing
else, to my mind, that proves the beauty of being young. I am sure that
I never was hot or violent--qualities which I especially dislike--but
still I would rather almost have those than be too philosophical. And
now, while I revered my father's cousin for his gentleness, wisdom, and
long-suffering, I almost longed to fly back to the Major, prejudiced,
peppery, and red-hot for justice, at any rate in all things that
concerned himself.

CHAPTER XXXVII

SOME ANSWER TO IT

Hasty indignation did not drive me to hot action. A quiet talk with
Mrs. Price, as soon as my cousin's bad hour arrived, was quite enough to
bring me back to a sense of my own misgovernment. Moreover, the evening
clouds were darkening for a night of thunder, while the silver Thames
looked nothing more than a leaden pipe down the valleys. Calm words fall
at such times on quick temper like the drip of trees on people who
have been dancing. I shivered, as my spirit fell, to think of my weak
excitement, and poor petulance to a kind, wise friend, a man of many
sorrows and perpetual affliction. And then I recalled what I had
observed, but in my haste forgotten--Lord Castlewood was greatly changed
even in the short time since I had left his house for Shoxford. Pale he
had always been, and his features (calm as they were, and finely cut)
seemed almost bleached by in-door life and continual endurance. But
now they showed worse sign than this--a delicate transparence of faint
color, and a waxen surface, such as I had seen at a time I can not bear
to think of. Also he had tottered forward, while he tried for steadfast
footing, quite as if his worried members were almost worn out at last.

Mrs. Price took me up quite sharply--at least for one of her
well-trained style--when I ventured to ask if she had noticed this,
which made me feel uneasy. "Oh dear, no!" she said, looking up from
the lace-frilled pockets of her silk apron, which appeared to my mind
perhaps a little too smart, and almost of a vulgar tincture; and I think
that she saw in my eyes that much, and was vexed with herself for not
changing it--"oh dear, no, Miss