"Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel.
"Perhaps he is—though on the whole I don＇t think so. But in that case what＇s more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse planted by other hands,deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its injustice?For me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of Buddha. He occupies a position that appeals to my imagination. Great responsibilities, great opportunities,great consideration, great wealth, great power, a natural share in the public affairs of a great country.But he＇s all in a muddle about himself, his position,his power, and indeed about everything in the world.He＇s the victim of a critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn＇t know what to believe in. When I attempt to tell him (because if I were he I know very well what I should believe in) he calls me a pampered bigot. I believe he seriously thinks me an awful Philistine; he says I don＇t understand my time. I understand it certainly better than he, who can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an institution."