He was not grief-stricken; but he felt that he ought to be, and, with a secret shame, concealed his callousness beneath an affectation of solemnity.
But when he was taken into the room where lay what was left of Wilbur Minafer, George had no longer to pretend; his grief was sufficient.

It needed only the sight of that forever inert semblance of the quiet man who had been always so quiet a part of his son's life--so quiet a part that George had seldom been consciously aware that his father was indeed a part of his life.

As the figure lay there, its very quietness was what was most lifelike; and suddenly it struck George hard.

And in that unexpected, racking grief of his son, Wilbur Minafer became more vividly George's father than he had ever been in life.
When George left the room, his arm was about his black-robed mother, his shoulders were still shaken with sobs.

He leaned upon his mother; she gently comforted him; and presently he recovered his composure and became self-conscious enough to wonder if he had not been making an unmanly display of himself.