He was proud, secretly, of having gone into
the army and of having been wounded. It made him feel he was not on the
shelf, not useless and superannuated. He took a certain pride also in
his judgement, his excellent judgement on pictures and literature.
Perhaps, even, having been a spoilt only child, he was privately proud
of some of his faults. He knew he was extravagant and impatient. The
best of everything was barely good enough for Aylmer. Long before he
inherited the property that had come to him a year ago he had never been
the sort of young man who would manage on little; who would, for
example, go to the gallery by Underground or omnibus to see a play or to
the opera. He required comfort, elbow-room, ease. For that reason he had
worked really hard at the Bar so as to have enough money to live
according to his ideas. Not that he took any special interest in the
Bar. His ideal had always been--if it could be combined--to be either a
soldier or a man of leisure, devoted to sport, literature and art.
Now he had asserted himself as a soldier, and he meant to go back. But
he looked forward to leisure to enjoy and indulge his favourite tastes,
if possible, with the only woman he had ever been deeply in love with.
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