To Darius there was no business quite like his own. He admitted that
there were businesses much bigger, but they lacked the miraculous
quality that his own had. They were not sacred. His was, genuinely.
Once, in his triumphant and vain early manhood he had had a fancy for
bulldogs; he had bred bulldogs; and one day he had sacrificed even that
great delight at the call of his business; and now no one could guess
that he knew the difference between a setter and a mastiff!
It was this sacred business (perpetually adored at the secret altar in
Darius's heart), this miraculous business, and not another, that Edwin
wanted to abandon, with scarcely a word; just casually!
True, Edwin had told him one night that he would like to be an
architect. But Darius had attached no importance to the boyish remark.
Darius had never even dreamed that Edwin would not go into the business.
It would not have occurred to him to conceive such a possibility. And
the boy had shown great aptitude. The boy had saved the printing office
from disaster. And Darius had proved his satisfaction therein, not by
words certainly, but beyond mistaking in his general demeanour towards
Edwin. And after all that, a letter--mind you, a letter!--proposing
with the most damnable insolent audacity that he should be an architect,
because he would not be `happy' in the printing business! ... An
architect! Why an architect, specially? What in the name of God was
there to attract in bricks and mortar? He thought the boy had gone off
his head for a space. He could not think of any other explanation. He
had not allowed the letter to upset him. By his armour of thick
callousness, he had protected the tender places in his soul from being
wounded. He had not decided how to phrase his answer to Edwin. He had
not even decided whether he would say anything at all, whether it would
not be more dignified and impressive to make no remark whatever to
Edwin, to let him slowly perceive, by silence, what a lamentable error
he had committed.
And here was the boy lightly, cheekily, talking at breakfast about
`going in for architecture'! The armour of callousness was pierced.
Darius felt the full force of the letter; and as he suffered, so he
became terrible and tyrannic in his suffering. He meant to save his
business, to put his business before anything. And he would have his
own way. He would impose his will. And he would have treated argument
as a final insult. All the heavy, obstinate, relentless force of his
individuality was now channelled in one tremendous instinct.
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