Oh, no! He had no
moral stomach-aches. Unlike other folks, he "reacted to external
stimuli in appropriate fashion," he cultivated the "function of the
real," he always knew how to "dominate his reflexes." His neural
currents were "duly co-ordinated." Mr. Keith was in love with life. It
dealt fairly with him. It made him loth to bid farewell to this
gracious earth and the blue sky overhead, to his cooks and his books,
his gardeners and roses and flaming cannas; loth to exchange these
things of love, these tangible delights, for a hideous and everlasting
annihilation.
That was why, having got rid of the committee of exasperating buffoons,
he was now prolonging breakfast far beyond the usual hour. The meal was
over at last; and still he felt disinclined to move. Those people had
disquieted his composure with their mephitic rant about philanthropy;
they had almost succeeded in spoiling his morning. And now this
funeral! Would he go into the house and do some reading or write a few
letters? No.
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