Harding's admiration of the aristocracy is part
of himself; it proceeds from hierarchical instinct and love of
order. He sees life flowing down the ages, each class separate, each
class dependent upon the other, a homogeneous whole, beautiful on
account of the harmony of the different parts, each melody going
different ways but contributing to the general harmony. He sees life
as classes; tradition is the breath of his nostrils, symbol the
delight of his eyes." Owen's thoughts divagated suddenly, and he
thought of the pain Harding would experience were he suddenly flung
into Bohemian society. He might find great talents there--but even
genius would not compensate him for disorder and licence. The dinner
might be excellent, but he would find no pleasure in it if the host
wore a painting jacket; a spot of ink on the shirt cuff would
extinguish his appetite, and a parlourmaid distress him, three
footmen induce pleasant ease of thought.
"A man born out of his time, in whom the disintegration of custom,
the fusing of the classes, produces an inner torment." And wondering
how he bore it, Owen began to think of an end for Harding, deciding
that sullen despair would take possession of him if the House of
Lords were seriously threatened.
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