He knew no other aspirations in life than such as the fortunes of a man like Walderhurst could put him in possession of.

Nature herself had built him after the model of the primeval type of English country land-owner.

India with her blasting and stifling hot seasons and her steaming rains gave him nothing that he desired, and filled him with revolt against Fate every hour of his life.
His sanguine body loathed and grew restive under heat.

At The Kennel Farm, when he sprang out of his bed in the fresh sweetness of the morning and plunged into his tub, he drew every breath with a physical rapture.

The air which swept in through the diamond-paned, ivy-hung casements was a joy.
"Good Lord!" he would cry out to Hester through her half-opened door, "what mornings! how a man _lives_ and feels the blood rushing through his veins! Rain or shine, it's all the same to me.