'
* * * * *
When she had gone, the Squire still continued pacing, absorbed
in meeting the attack of new and strange ideas. He had
always been a man with a singularly small reflective gift.
Self-examination--introspection of any sort--were odious to him. He
lived on stimulus from outside, attracted or repelled, amused or
interested, bored or angry, as the succession of events or impressions
might dictate. To collect beautiful things was a passion with him, and
he was proud of the natural taste and instinct, which generally led
him right. But for 'aesthetics'--the philosophy of art--he had nothing
but contempt. The volatile, restless mind escaped at once from the
concentration asked of it; and fell back on what the Buddhist calls
'Maia,' the gay and changing appearances of things, which were all he
wanted. And it was because the war had interfered with this pleasant
and perpetual challenge to the senses of the outer world, because
it forced a man back on general ideas that he did not want to
consider--God, Country, Citizenship--that the Squire had hated the
war.
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