For here there were men about him who, having seen him, turned away,
shutting him out from them, with no one word of greeting, not so much
as a nod. He was not in the habit of being received this way. It was,
his sensitive nature told him, as though he had been examined by them,
had been recognized as an alien, and had had the doors of their
fraternity clicked in his face.
He felt a sudden bitterness, a sudden anger. And with it he felt a
deep contempt for them, for their petty, unenlightened lives, their
coarseness, their blackened hands and unshaved faces. He was a
gentleman and a Conniston! He was the son of William Conniston, of
Wall Street! He told himself that when they came to know who he was,
who his father was, their incivility would change fast enough into
servility.
And still he had as much as he could do to keep the little hurt, the
sting of his reception, from showing in his face. He glanced as
disgustedly as Hapgood could have done into the rude bunk with its
tangled pile of coarse blankets, and turned away from it. For one
fleeting second the temptation was strong upon him to turn his back
upon the lot of them, to stalk proudly to the door, to go to Mr.
Crawford and tell him that he was not used to this sort of thing and
did not intend to try to grow accustomed to it. One thing only
restrained him. He knew that even as he closed the door behind him he
would hear their voices in rude laughter, and Greek Conniston did not
like being laughed at.
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