“Now, what nonsense, Jem.”
“It is not nonsense, Jack. The fellow is a mere machine—a good-looking, well-built machine, with not a thought above low-class footraces, and training, and rowing, and football, and cricket.”
“And not bad things either,” said the baronet, hotly.
“No, sir,” replied the major, drawing himself up, “not bad things, but good things if a young man takes to them as amusements to keep his nature in subjection, and to bring it to its finest state of development, that he may have a sound brain in a sound body.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Sir John.
“But bad, rotten, and blackguardly things when a man gives the whole of his mind to them, and has no more ambition than leads him to be the winner of a cup in a walking match.”
“Oh, rubbish!” cried the baronet, warmly. “Rolph’s a gentleman.”
“Then he’s a confoundedly bad specimen of the class, Jack.”
“You’re as prejudiced as an old woman, Jem,” cried the baronet, angrily.
“Perhaps I am,” replied his brother: “but it isn’t prejudice to see that this fellow can’t talk to a girl on any subject but athletics. I haven’t patience with him. I always hated to see him here.”