He's actually sore about the way that I'm received and he's left
out in the county - actually jealous and sore. I've rallied him and
I've reasoned with him, told him that every one was most kindly inclined
towards him, told him even that I was received merely because I was his
guest. But it's no use. He will neither accept the invitations he
gets, nor stop brooding about the ones where he's left out. What I'm
afraid of is that the wound's ulcerating. He had always one of those
dark, secret, angry natures - a little underhand and plenty of bile -
you know the sort. He must have inherited it from the Weirs, whom I
suspect to have been a worthy family of weavers somewhere; what's the
cant phrase? - sedentary occupation. It's precisely the kind of
character to go wrong in a false position like what his father's made
for him, or he's making for himself, whichever you like to call it. And
for my part, I think it a disgrace," Frank would say generously.
Presently the sorrow and anxiety of this disinterested friend took
shape.
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