He liked the
open air; he liked comradeship, it mattered not with
whom, his comrades were only a remedy for solitude.
And he had a taste for painted art. An array of fine
pictures looked upon his childhood, and from these
roods of jewelled canvas he received an indelible
impression. The gallery at Stallbridge betokened
generations of picture-lovers; Norris was perhaps the
first of his race to hold the pencil. The taste was
genuine, it grew and strengthened with his growth; and
yet he suffered it to be suppressed with scarce a
struggle. Time came for him to go to Oxford, and he
resisted faintly. He was stupid, he said; it was no
good to put him through the mill; he wished to be a
painter. The words fell on his father like a
thunderbolt, and Norris made haste to give way. "It
didn't really matter, don't you know?" said he. "And
it seemed an awful shame to vex the old boy."
To Oxford he went obediently, hopelessly; and at Oxford
became the hero of a certain circle. He was active and
adroit; when he was in the humour, he excelled in many
sports; and his singular melancholy detachment gave him
a place apart.
Pages:
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544