And"-- he paused, becoming serious--"and if I were you I wouldn't say anything to your grandfather about this." "I don't think I could trust myself to speak to him about it," said George.

"I want to treat him respectfully, because he is my grandfather, but I don't believe I could if I talked to him about such a thing as this!" And with a gesture of despair, plainly signifying that all too soon after leaving bright college years behind him he had entered into the full tragedy of life, George turned bitterly upon his heel and went into the house for his breakfast.
His uncle, with his head whimsically upon one side, gazed after him not altogether unsympathetically, then descended again into the excavation whence he had lately emerged.

Being a philosopher he was not surprised, that afternoon, in the course of a drive he took in the old carriage with the Major, when, George was encountered upon the highway, flashing along in his runabout with Lucy beside him and Pendennis doing better than three minutes.
"He seems to have recovered," Amberson remarked: "Looks in the highest good spirits." "I beg your pardon." "Your grandson," Amberson explained.

"He was inclined to melancholy this morning, but seemed jolly enough just now when they passed us." "What was he melancholy about?
Not getting remorseful about all the money he's spent at college, was he ?" The Major chuckled feebly, but with sufficient grimness.

"I wonder what he thinks I'm made of," he concluded querulously.
"Gold," his son suggested, adding gently, "And he's right about part of you, father." "What part ?" "Your heart." The Major laughed ruefully.