Think about this: the same eyes that can only bear to look at the most colorful marble and freshly polished surfaces at home — eyes that won't look at a table unless the wood has beautiful grain patterns, and won't step on anything less precious than gold — these same eyes will calmly look at rough, muddy roads when they go outside. They'll see most people dressed poorly and houses with rotting, cracked, uneven walls, and it won't bother them at all. Why aren't they upset by sights outdoors that would shock them at home? It's simple: their mood is calm and patient in one case, but irritable and critical in the other.
Those same eyes which can only endure to see the most variegated marble, and that which has just been scoured bright, which will look at no table whose wood is not marked with a network of veining, and which at home are loth to tread upon anything that is not more precious than gold, will, when out of doors, gaze most calmly upon rough and miry paths, will see unmoved that the greater number of persons that meet them are shabbily dressed, and that the walls of the houses are rotten, full of cracks, and uneven. What, then, can be the reason that they are not distressed out of doors by sights which would shock them in their own home, unless it be that their temper is placid and long-suffering in one case, sulky and fault-finding in the other?