So the talk went on.
Judith sat there listening, cutting open her novel, and throwing in a remark from time to time.
Every word that was uttered seemed a brick in the wall that was building between herself and Reuben.
In this crisis of his career, so long looked forward to, so often discussed, he had no need, no thought of her. Adelaide, Esther, Rose, all had more claim on him than she; she was shut out from his life.
Reuben, disappointed, defeated: in such a one she would always, in spite of himself, have felt her rights. But Reuben, hopeful, successful, surrounded by admiring friends and relatives, fenced in more closely still by his mother’s love: from the contemplation of this glittering figure, cruel, triumphant, she turned away in a stony agony of self-contempt.
There was a sound of carriage wheels outside, and Lionel, who had been reconnoitring in the hall, burst in with the announcement, “Grandpapa has come.”
Mrs. Leuniger received the news with something like agitation. Old Solomon’s visits were few and far between, and now as he came, with pompous uncertainty of step across the room, the whole group by the fireplace rose hastily and went to meet him.
“Reuben is nominated,” cried Adelaide, when the old man had been established in a chair.
“Yes, yes,” said Solomon Sachs, “so I hear.”
He turned to his niece: “He ain’t looking well, that boy of yours.”