Dermot was in London too, not staying with uncle or sister, for both
of whom he was much too erratic, though he generally presented
himself at such times as were fittest for ascertaining our movements
for the day, when it generally ended in his attaching himself to some
of us, for Harold seemed to have passed an act of oblivion on the
doings of that last unhappy meeting, and allowed himself to be taken
once or twice with Eustace into Dermot's own world; but not only was
he on his guard there, but he could not be roused to interest even
where horseflesh was concerned. Some one said he was too great a
barbarian, and so he was. His sports and revelries had been on a
wilder, ruder, more violent scale, such as made these seem tame. He
did not understand mere trifling for amusement's sake, still less how
money could be thrown away for it and for fashion, when it was so
cruelly wanted by real needs; and even Dermot was made uncomfortable
by his thorough earnestness. "It won't do in 'the village' in the
nineteenth century," said he to me. "It is like--who was that old
fellow it was said of--a lion stalking about in a sheepfold."
"Sheep!" said I, indignantly. "I am afraid some are wolves in
sheep's clothing."
Dermot shrugged his shoulders and said, "How is one to help oneself
if one has been born some two thousand years too late, or not in the
new half-baked hemisphere where demigods still walk the earth in
their simplicity?"
"I want you not to spoil the demigod when he has walked in among
you.
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