She liked his serene, friendly, and hospitable manner in the
country. In the town he seemed continually uneasy and on his
guard, as though he were afraid someone would be rude to him, and
still more to her. At home in the country, knowing himself
distinctly to be in his right place, he was never in haste to be
off elsewhere. He was never unoccupied. Here in town he was in
a continual hurry, as though afraid of missing something, and yet
he had nothing to do. And she felt sorry for him. To others,
she knew, he did not appear an object of pity. On the contrary,
when Kitty looked at him in society, as one sometimes looks at
those one loves, trying to see him as if he were a stranger, so
as to catch the impression he must make on others, she saw with a
panic even of jealous fear that he was far indeed from being a
pitiable figure, that he was very attractive with his fine
breeding, his rather old-fashioned, reserved courtesy with women,
his powerful figure, and striking, as she thought, and expressive
face. But she saw him not from without, but from within; she saw
that here he was not himself; that was the only way she could
define his condition to herself. Sometimes she inwardly
reproached him for his inability to live in the town; sometimes
she recognized that it was really hard for him to order his life
here so that he could be satisfied with it.