His duty towards his neighbour was another bugbear. It
seemed to him that he had duties towards everybody, lying in wait for him
upon every side, but that nobody had any duties towards him. Then there
was that awful and mysterious word 'business.' What did it all mean?
What was 'business'? His Papa was a wonderfully good man of business,
his Mamma had often told him so--but he should never be one. It was
hopeless, and very awful, for people were continually telling him that he
would have to earn his own living. No doubt, but how--considering how
stupid, idle, ignorant, self-indulgent, and physically puny he was? All
grown-up people were clever, except servants--and even these were
cleverer than ever he should be. Oh, why, why, why, could not people be
born into the world as grown-up persons? Then he thought of Casabianca.
He had been examined in that poem by his father not long before. 'When
only would he leave his position? To whom did he call? Did he get an
answer? Why? How many times did he call upon his father? What happened
to him? What was the noblest life that perished there? Do you think so?
Why do you think so?' And all the rest of it.
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