this year, it seems like a dream, it has been so easy and so fortunate. But when trouble does come,—illness, death, and that sort of thing,—one has to have inner resources. Oliver has no inner resources. Oliver hates trouble, and illness, and pain; and, whenever he can, he runs away from them. When he is sick himself, he acts like an untrained child. He is terrified and certain that he is going to die; he is really dreadfully afraid of death—his own death, or the death of anyone he is fond of."
"That is interesting," I said. "I didn't suppose that at bottom Oliver took anything seriously."
"He doesn't," said Cornelia, "except that—trouble to himself, I mean, and to a few others whom he regards as part of himself. As for anyone else, he is always saying, 'It is easy to bear the misfortunes of others.' Generally speaking, he isn't serious about anything. When he isn't in a fit of being pessimistic and panic-stricken about himself, he is just cynical and flippant. He doesn't believe that goodness is worth trying for. He laughs at all the principles which I was taught to regard as elementary. He calls them 'virtues of the bourgeoisie' and 'old maids' morality.' When I protest, Oliver says my humor is 'thin.'
