He
himself had taken hold of practical things at an early age; he had made
something out of nothing--a good deal out of nothing; and compared with
this act of creation the fabrication of verses or of pictures was a
paltry affair, indeed.
He was willing enough that his daughters should improve themselves; he
was even proud, in a way, of Jane's ability to keep step with the general
advance of female culture. But for any such turn in one of his sons he
had no sympathy, no patience. He conferred with Truesdale on the possible
reorganization of the business, and put before him the appositeness of
his coming in at such a time; but Truesdale would lift his brows and suck
his lips and study the pattern of the carpet, and mumble something about
packing his trunk and "going somewhere."
His days, in fact, were becoming long--inordinately so; it was to his
evenings that he was coming to look exclusively for diversion. He made
the most of these; he drew them out as long as possible--to
counterbalance the days. He seldom came home before midnight, frequently
not before two or three in the morning; occasionally not at all. In
company with three or four choice spirits, Arthur Paston and his like, he
turned night into day, and was seen now and then at such conjunction of
place and time as would well have justified an explanation to the
sober-minded or even to the comparatively correct. Like his other
associates on these occasions, he still retained the enviable faculty of
being able to "be nice to nice people"; but he acknowledged his taste and
his sensibilities both to be badly lacerated, and he confessed now and
then with a sigh that he had never amused himself so indifferently in his
life.
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