When I
walked up a hill I durst not leave the doors of the claret-coloured
chaise. Sometimes I would change the disposition of the funds:
there were days when I carried as much as five or six thousand
pounds on my own person, and only the residue continued to voyage
in the treasure-chest--days when I bulked all over like my cousin,
crackled to a touch with bank paper, and had my pockets weighed to
bursting-point with sovereigns. And there were other days when I
wearied of the thing--or grew ashamed of it--and put all the money
back where it had come from: there let it take its chance, like
better people! In short, I set Rowley a poor example of
consistency, and in philosophy, none at all.
Little he cared! All was one to him so long as he was amused, and
I never knew any one amused more easily. He was thrillingly
interested in life, travel, and his own melodramatic position. All
day he would be looking from the chaise windows with ebullitions of
gratified curiosity, that were sometimes justified and sometimes
not, and that (taken altogether) it occasionally wearied me to be
obliged to share. I can look at horses, and I can look at trees
too, although not fond of it. But why should I look at a lame
horse, or a tree that was like the letter Y? What exhilaration
could I feel in viewing a cottage that was the same colour as 'the
second from the miller's' in some place where I had never been, and
of which I had not previously heard? I am ashamed to complain, but
there were moments when my juvenile and confidential friend weighed
heavy on my hands.
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