Reginald, the men of even his own class seemed travesties and parodies of a noble original, in that they were content to lead the dreadful lives they did—killing tame birds, knocking little balls about the place, watching other people ride races, rushing around in motors, sailing sunny seas in luxury and safety, seeing foreign lands only from their best hotels, poodle-faking and philandering, doing everything but anything—pampered, soft, useless; each a most exact and careful copy of his neighbour. Reginald loved, and excelled at, every form of sport, and had been prominent in the playing-fields at Winchester, Sandhurst and Oxford, but he could not live by sport alone, and to him it had always been a means and not an end, a means to health, strength, skill and hardihood—the which were to be applied—not to more games—but to the fuller living of life. The seeds of his father's teaching had fallen on most receptive and fertile soil, and their fruit ripened not the slower by reason of the fact that his father was his friend, confidant, hero and model.… He could see him now as he straddled mightily on the rug before the library fire, in his pink and cords, his spurred tops splashed with mud, and grey on the inner sides with the sweat of his horse. …
"Brown-paper prisons for poor men, and pink-silk cages for rich—that's Life nowadays, my boy, unless you're careful.… Get hold of Life, don't let Life get hold of you. Take the family motto for your guidance in actual fact. 'Be all, see all.' Try to carry it out as far as humanly possible. Live Life and live it in the World. Don't live a thousandth part of Life in a millionth part of the World, as all
