But the
hour and the place overcame her; a noble passion shone in her clear
eyes, and thrilled in her utterance.
"What barbarians!"
"Yet you know they are nothing of the kind," objected Helen. "At
least, not all of them."
"Mr. March?--You called him, yourself, a fine barbarian, quoting
from Matthew Arnold. I never before understood how true that
description was."
"I assure you, it doesn't apply to him, whatever I may have said in
joke. This shooting is the tradition of a certain class. It's one of
the ways in which great, strong men get their necessary exercise.
Some of them feel, at moments, just as you do, I've no doubt; but
there they are, a lot of them together, and a man can't make himself
ridiculous, you know."
"You're not like yourself in this, Helen," said Irene. "You're not
speaking as you think. Another time, you'll confess it's abominable
savagery, with not one good word to be said for it. And more
contemptible than I ever suspected! I'm so glad I've seen this. It
helps to clear my thoughts about--about things in general."
She flung away the little yellow cylinder-flung it far from her with
disgust, and, as if to forget it, plucked as she walked on a spray
of heath, which glowed with its purple bells among the redder ling.
Helen's countenance was shadowed. She spoke no more for several
minutes.
When two days had passed, March again came riding up to the Castle,
and lunched with the ladies.
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