However, he felt that his father's death had sobered him as nothing
else, not even Ida's suicide, had done. The time was come at length for
him to take life seriously. He would settle down now to work at his art.
He would go to Paris as his father had wished, and devote himself
earnestly to painting. Yes, the time was come for him to steady himself,
and give over the vicious life into which he had been drifting.
But it was not long before Vandover had become accustomed to his
father's death, and had again rearranged himself to suit the new
environment which it had occasioned. He wondered at himself because of
the quickness with which he had recovered from this grief, just as
before he had marvelled at the ease with which he had forgotten Ida's
death. Could it be true, then, that nothing affected him very deeply?
Was his nature shallow?
However, he was wrong in this respect; his nature was not shallow. It
had merely become deteriorated.
Two days after his father's death Vandover went into the Old Gentleman's
room to get a certain high-backed chair which had been moved there from
his own room during the confusion of the funeral, and which, pending
the arrival of the trestles, had been used to support the coffin.
Pages:
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226