At the door John hesitated. He had looked forward to this moment as one
of excitement and adventure, but now that it had come it had left him
in anything but an uplifted mood. He was naturally warm-hearted, and
his uncle's cold anger hurt him. It was so different from anything
sudden, so essentially not of the moment. He felt instinctively that it
had been smoldering for a long time, and realized with a shock that his
uncle had not been merely indifferent to him all these years, but had
actually hated him. It was as if he had caught a glimpse of something
ugly. He felt that this was the last scene of some long drawn-out
tragedy.

Something made him turn impulsively back towards the desk.

"Uncle--" he cried.

He stopped. The hopelessness of attempting any step towards a better
understanding overwhelmed him. Mr. Westley had begun to write. He must
have seen John's movement, but he continued to write as if he were
alone in the room.

John turned to the door again.

"Good-by," he said.

Mr. Westley did not look up.