"Poor chap!" Arthur had reflected.

"One shouldn't blame him for snatching at any consolation, however flimsy." In those days Arthur often, in generous mood, admitted--to himself--that fortune had been shamefully partial in elevating him, without any effort on his part, but merely by the accident of birth, far above the overwhelming majority of young men.

He felt doubly generous--in having such broad views and in not aggravating the misfortunes of the less lucky by expressing them.
Dr.Hargrave and his son--his only child--and his dead wife's sister, Martha Skeffington, lived in a quaint old brick house in University Avenue.

A double row of ancient elms shaded the long walk straight up from the gate.

On the front door was a huge bronze knocker which Arthur lifted and dropped several times without getting response.