For Egbert had no intention of coming to grips with life. He had no
ambition whatsoever. He came from a decent family, from a pleasant
country home, from delightful surroundings. He should, of course, have
had a profession. He should have studied law or entered business in some
way. But no--that fatal three pounds a week would keep him from starving
as long as he lived, and he did not want to give himself into bondage. It
was not that he was idle. He was always doing something, in his
amateurish way. But he had no desire to give himself to the world, and
still less had he any desire to fight his way in the world. No, no, the
world wasn't worth it. He wanted to ignore it, to go his own way apart,
like a casual pilgrim down the forsaken sidetracks. He loved his wife,
his cottage and garden. He would make his life there, as a sort of
epicurean hermit. He loved the past, the old music and dances and customs
of old England. He would try and live in the spirit of these, not in the
spirit of the world of business.

But often Winifred's father called her to London: for he loved to have
his children round him. So Egbert and she must have a tiny flat in town,
and the young couple must transfer themselves from time to time from the
country to the city. In town Egbert had plenty of friends, of the same
ineffectual sort as himself, tampering with the arts, literature,
painting, sculpture, music. He was not bored.

Three pounds a week, however, would not pay for all this. Winifred's
father paid. He liked paying. He made her only a very small allowance,
but he often gave her ten pounds--or gave Egbert ten pounds. So they both
looked on the old man as the mainstay. Egbert didn't mind being
patronized and paid for. Only when he felt the family was a little _too_
condescending, on account of money, he began to get huffy.