What was philosophy, anyway? With Ross it seemed a matter of speaking the
vocabulary of philosophers. It was so, he knew, with many men. And yet,
as to the thing itself, it was not a mere learning a system of thought,
acquiring the easy use of a peculiar kind of words. It was not fair,
after all, to judge a thing by the people least fitted to understand it.
Perhaps philosophy was conquering life. Perhaps it was learning to take
life in good part, making up one's mind to write good text-books if it
seemed certain the writing of text-books were to be one's part. Perhaps
it was just holding one's place. The mere thing of holding one's place
seemed a bigger thing now than it once had. He wondered. He was wondering
about many things these days, and perhaps he had already scaled a crag or
two, for he was able sometimes, in spite of the deep sadness of his face,
to smile a little in his wonderings.
Ernestine was her sweetest self when she came in a little later. "I'm
glad you were late," he said, after her affectionate protestations
regarding her shortcomings, "you haven't been this nice for a long time.
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