In spite of the tugging at his heart-strings, Benham
was making up his mind to be a prig. He weighed the cold
uningratiating virtues of priggishness against his smouldering
passion for Amanda, and against his obstinate sympathy for
Prothero's grossness and his mother's personal pride, and he made
his choice. But it was a reluctant choice.
One fragment began in the air. "Of course I had made myself
responsible for her life. But it was, you see, such a confoundedly
energetic life, as vigorous and as slippery as an eel. . . . Only
by giving all my strength to her could I have held Amanda. . . . So
what was the good of trying to hold Amanda? . . .
"All one's people have this sort of claim upon one. Claims made by
their pride and their self-respect, and their weaknesses and
dependences. You've no right to hurt them, to kick about and demand
freedom when it means snapping and tearing the silly suffering
tendrils they have wrapped about you. The true aristocrat I think
will have enough grasp, enough steadiness, to be kind and right to
every human being and still do the work that ought to be his
essential life.
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