But Weston was physically a delicate man.
By nature he was retiring, rather than aggressive. If those who were
his equals would have none of him because of his father's faults, then
he would not seek them. Equally distasteful were those who equalled
him in wealth alone, for by a strange contradiction, the very fact that
the rumshop did not jar on their sensibilities, marked them for him as
coarse and uncongenial. Weston had turned to himself. It is the study
of oneself that makes cynics. The study of others makes egotists.
Then a woman had come. Of her Weston did not say much, except that she
had made him turn from himself for a time to study her. He had become
an egotist and so had dared to love her. She had loved him, he
thought, for she said so, and promised to become his wife. Things were
growing brighter. But they met an officious friend. They were in
Venice at the time, he having joined her there with her family. The
officious friend joined the family too, and he held up his hands in
horror when he heard of it.
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