My brother, quiet as a cat, seems perfectly contented with the internal feelings of his felicity. The Marquis, mad as a kitten, is all in motion to express it, from tongue to heel.

And now as other Fawkners use, I spring a mistresse, sweare, write, sigh and weepe: And the game kill'd, or lost, goe talk, and sleepe.

An example will best make the matter clear, and throw light, perhaps, on many cases of apparently mysterious rustings.

[…] when men come together to profess a creed, they come courageously, though it is to hide in catacombs and caves. But when they come together in a clique they come sneakishly, eschewing all change or disagreement, though it is to dine to a brass band in a big London hotel.