But Derrick was human, and had his faults like the rest of us; and I am pretty sure he did not much enjoy the sight of his father's foolish and unreasonable devotion to Lawrence.

If you come to think of it, he would have been a full-fledged angel if no jealous pang, no reflection that it was rather rough on him, had crossed his mind, when he saw his younger brother treated with every mark of respect and liking, and knew that Lawrence would never stir a finger really to help the poor fractious invalid.
Unluckily they happened one night to get on the subject of professions.
"It's a comfort," said the Major, in his sarcastic way, "to have a fellow-soldier to talk to instead of a quill-driver, who as yet is not even a penny-a-liner.

Eh, Derrick?
Don't you feel inclined to regret your fool's choice now?
You might have been starting off for the war with Lawrence next week, if you hadn't chosen what you're pleased to call a literary life.

Literary life, indeed! I little thought a son of mine would ever have been so wanting in spirit as to prefer dabbling in ink to a life of action--to be the scribbler of mere words, rather than an officer of dragoons." Then to my astonishment Derrick sprang to his feet in hot indignation.
I never saw him look so handsome, before or since; for his anger was not the distorting, devilish anger that the Major gave way to, but real downright wrath.
"You speak contemptuously of mere novels," he said in a low voice, yet more clearly than usual, and as if the words were wrung out of him.
"What right have you to look down on one of the greatest weapons of the day?
and why is a writer to submit to scoffs and insults and tamely to hear his profession reviled?
I have chosen to write the message that has been given me, and I don't regret the choice.

Should I have shown greater spirit if I had sold my freedom and right of judgment to be one of the national killing machines ?" With that he threw down his cards and strode out of the room in a white heat of anger.