Jack looked out of the windows, his eyes taking in the remnants of
the autumnal tints in the Park, now nearly gone, the crowd filling
the sidewalks; the lumbering stages and the swifter-moving horse-
cars crammed with eager men anxious to begin the struggle of the
day--not with their hands--that mob had swept past hours before--
but with their brains--wits against wits and the devil take the
man who slips and falls.
Nothing of it all interested him. His mind was on the talk at the
breakfast table, especially his uncle's ideas of hospitality, all
of which had appalled and disgusted him. With his father there had
always been a welcome for every one, no matter what the position
in life, the only standard being one of breeding and character--
and certainly Peter had both. His uncle had helped him, of course
--put him under obligations he could never repay. Yet after all, it
was proved now to him that he was but a guest in the house
enjoying only such rights as any other guest might possess, and
with no voice in the welcome--a condition which would never be
altered, until he became independent himself--a possibility which
at the moment was too remote to be considered.
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