That spectacle went to his own heart, and in his pain and shame he would have given worlds to have those unkind words back.

She had uttered no syllable of reproach--and that cut him.

Not one suggestion that he look at his own record--and she could have made, oh, so many, and such blistering ones! Her generous silence brought a swift revenge, for it turned his thoughts upon himself, it summoned before him a spectral procession, a moving vision of his life as he had been leading it these past few years of limitless prosperity, and as he sat there reviewing it his cheeks burned and his soul was steeped in humiliation.

Look at her life--how fair it was, and tending ever upward; and look at his own--how frivolous, how charged with mean vanities, how selfish, how empty, how ignoble! And its trend--never upward, but downward, ever downward! He instituted comparisons between her record and his own.

He had found fault with her--so he mused--HE! And what could he say for himself?
When she built her first church what was he doing?
Gathering other blase multimillionaires into a Poker Club; defiling his own palace with it; losing hundreds of thousands to it at every sitting, and sillily vain of the admiring notoriety it made for him.