“I don’t mean he’s a miser, of course,” said George. “Heaven knows he’s liberal enough with mother and me; but why on earth didn’t he sell something or other rather than do a thing like this?”
“As a matter of fact,” Amberson returned coolly, “I believe he has sold something or other, from time to time.”
“Well, in heaven’s name,” George cried, “what did he do it for?”
“To get money,” his uncle mildly replied. “That’s my deduction.”
“I suppose you’re joking—or trying to!”
“That’s the best way to look at it,” Amberson said amiably. “Take the whole thing as a joke—and in the meantime, if you haven’t had your breakfast—”
“I haven’t!”
“Then if I were you I’d go in and get some. And”—he paused, becoming serious—“and if I were you I wouldn’t say anything to your grandfather about this.”
“I don’t think I could trust myself to speak to him about it,” said George. “I want to treat him respectfully, because he is my grandfather, but I don’t believe I could if I talked to him about such a thing as this!”
And with a gesture of despair, plainly signifying that all too soon after leaving bright college years behind him he had entered into the full tragedy of life, George turned bitterly upon his heel and went into the house for his breakfast.