Clara could not fail to understand his meaning, and now, for the first time, it occurred to her what a gloomy life she must lead with this solemn man of books. She had no great taste for literature: Ernest, on the other hand, was a thorough bibliophilist. He would, no doubt, want her to read to him what he called light literature, which would prove rather heavy to her; and he would expect her to be deeply interested in it. Xerxes, on the contrary, would be a gay companion, and would take her to balls, theaters, and other places of amusement. This comparison passed rapidly through her mind.
“Do you not think that will be a pleasant way to spend life?” asked Ernest, after the pause that followed his last remark.
“It may be for those who like it,” she answered very dryly.
“Don’t you think,” asked Ernest, “that intellectual pleasures are the most solid and substantial of all? I take the view that we are put here to cultivate our minds and hearts, and not to be creatures of mere sensuality. How much better are we than the brutes, if our whole aim is only to ‘eat, drink, and be merry.’ That is the way they spend the golden hours of life.”
“I suppose you mean, then, to call me a brute,” said Clara, inclined to pout.
“No, no,” cried Ernest quickly, “I had no such meaning.”
“But I cannot enjoy books like you. You know that,” she said peevishly.
“You will learn, though, I trust.”
“I don’t think I ever will,” she replied.
“What do you like, then?” inquired Ernest, trying to smile.