The care of his estate was the
second reason, properly dismissed as plainly frivolous. In the end of the
letter more sincerity peeped out, as the writer lapsed from formality
into friendship. "I know I shall surprise many people and grieve some,
but I'm sick of the thing. I can't endure the perpetual haggling between
what I ought to do and what I'm expected to do; the compromises that
result satisfy me as little as anybody. In fine, my dear Constantine, I'm
going back to my pictures, my books, my hills, and my friends." Constantine
read with a genuine sorrow and criticised with a contemptuous sniff.
Pictures, books--and hills! Hills! It was insulting his intelligence. And
though friends were all very well, yet where was the use of them if a man
deprived himself of all the sources of entertaining conversation? But
there was nothing to be done--except to tell Lady Castlefort a day before
the rest of the world knew. Constantine held her favour on that tenure.
She showed no surprise.
"A loss to the country, but not to us," she said.
"Just what I think," agreed Constantine, with a revival of cheerfulness.
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