I waited in the reception-room, which was cold and felt damp. In the
parlour beyond I could see the innumerable things of beauty--furniture,
pictures, books, so very, very much of everything--with which the room
was filled. I saw it now, as I had often seen it before, with a peculiar
sense of weariness. How all these things, though beautiful enough in
themselves, must clutter up a man's life!

Do you know, the more I look into life, the more things it seems to me I
can successfully lack--and continue to grow happier. How many kinds of
food I do not need, nor cooks to cook them, how much curious clothing
nor tailors to make it, how many books that I never read, and pictures
that are not worth while! The farther I run, the more I feel like
casting aside all such impedimenta--lest I fail to arrive at the far
goal of my endeavour.

I like to think of an old Japanese nobleman I once read about, who
ornamented his house with a single vase at a time, living with it,
absorbing its message of beauty, and when he tired of it, replacing it
with another. I wonder if he had the right way, and we, with so many
objects to hang on our walls, place on our shelves, drape on our chairs,
and spread on our floors, have mistaken our course and placed our hearts
upon the multiplicity rather than the quality of our possessions!

Presently Mr. Starkweather appeared in the doorway. He wore a velvet
smoking-jacket and slippers; and somehow, for a bright morning like
this, he seemed old, and worn, and cold.

"Well, well, friend," he said, "I'm glad to see you."

He said it as though he meant it.