It was his own temper--though he was no practising artist--and accounted largely for his actions.

What are politics--or social reform--or religion--or morals--compared to _art_?
The true artist, it has been pleaded again and again, has no country.

He follows Beauty wherever she pitches her tent--'an hourly neighbour.' Woe to the interests that conflict with this interest! He simply drives them out of doors, and turns the key upon them! This, in fact, was the Squire's defence of himself, whenever he troubled to defend himself.

As to the pettinesses of a domineering and irritable temper, cherished through long years, and flying out on the smallest occasions--the Squire conveniently forgot them, in those rare moments of self-vision which were all the gods allowed him.

Of course he was master in his own house and estate--why not?
Of course he fought those who would interfere with him, war or no war--why not?
He sat down to his table, very sorry for himself, and hotly indignant with an unreasonable woman.