Then he
went upstairs to his own room, which he had occupied since he was eight
years old. It looked familiar, everything was in its accustomed place;
still, the room did not look homelike. Strange as it may seem, Quincy
had been happier in the large west chamber, with its old-fashioned
bureau and carpet and bed, than he had ever been in this handsomely
furnished apartment in the Beacon Street mansion. There was no wide
fireplace here, with ruddy embers, into whose burning face he could look
and weave fanciful dreams of the fortune and happiness to be his in the
future.
He spent a pleasant evening with the family. His father was present, but
passed the time in reading the newspapers and a legal brief that he
wished to more closely examine. His mother was engrossed in a new novel,
but no approving smile or sympathetic tear demonstrated any particular
interest in the fates of the struggling hero or suffering heroine.
Florence sat at the piano, and, in response to Quincy's request that she
would give him some music, played over some chromatic scales and
arpeggios.
Pages:
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531