of the Barbizon masters, old English plate
and portraits, bronzes by Barye and marbles by Rodin, Persian carpets
and Chinese porcelains, had been introduced to the mansion. It
contained a Louis Quinze reception-room, an Empire drawing-room, a
Jacobean dining-room, and various apartments dimly reminiscent of the
styles of furniture affected by deceased monarchs. That the hallways
were too short for the historic perspective did not make much
difference. American decorative art is capable de tout, it absorbs all
periods. Of each period Mr. Weightman wished to have something of the
best. He understood its value, present as a certificate, and
prospective as an investment.

It was only in the architecture of his town house that he remained
conservative, immovable, one might almost say
Early-Victorian-Christian. His country house at Dulwich-on-the-Sound
was a palace of the Italian Renaissance. But in town he adhered to an
architecture which had moral associations, the
Nineteenth-Century-Brownstone epoch. It was a symbol of his social
position, his religious doctrine, and even, in a way, of his business
creed.

"A man of fixed principles," he would say, "should express them in the
looks of his house. New York changes its domestic architecture too
rapidly. It is like divorce. It is not dignified. I don't like it.
Extravagance and fickleness are advertised in most of these new houses.
I wish to be known for different qualities. Dignity and prudence are
the things that people trust. Every one knows that I can afford to
live in the house that suits me. It is a guarantee to the public. It
inspires confidence. It helps my influence. There is a text in the
Bible about 'a house that hath foundations.' That is the proper kind of
a mansion for a solid man."

Harold Weightman had often listened to his father discoursing in this
fashion on the fundamental principles of life, and always with a
divided mind. He admired immensely his father's talents and the
single-minded energy with which he improved them. But in the paternal
philosophy there was something that disquieted and oppressed the young
man, and made him gasp inwardly for fresh air and free action.

At times, during his college course and his years at the law school, he
had yielded to this impulse and broken away--now toward extravagance
and dissipation, and then, when the reaction came, toward a romantic
devotion to work among the poor. He had felt his fa