Excerpt from Harper's Monthly Magazine, Vol. 122: December, 1910, to May, 1911
The father held out his hand in silence. The heavy portiere dropped noiselessly behind the son, and he went up the wide, curving stairway to his own room.
Meantime John Weightman sat in his carved chair in the Jacobean dining room. He felt strangely old and dull. The portraits of beautiful women by Lawrence and Reynolds and Raeburn, which had often seemed like real company to him, looked remote and uninteresting. He fancied something cold and almost unfriendly in their expression, as if they were staring through him or beyond him. They cared nothing for his principles, his hopes, his disappointments, his suc cesses; they belonged to another world, in which he had no place. At this he felt a vague resentment, a sense of discomfort that he could not have de fined or explained. He was used to being considered, respected, appreciated at his full value in every region, even in that of his own dreams.
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