"In the meantime, my dear fellow, there is some of the old Madeira left and a game of whist will only help to drive dull care away." Garry never whimpered when the crash came.

The dear mother died--how patient and uncomplaining she was in all their ups and downs--and Garry was all that was left.

What he had gained since in life he had worked for; first as office boy, then as draughtsman and then in charge of special work, earning his Chief's approval, as the Scribe has duly set forth.

He got his inheritance, of course.

Don't we all get ours?
Sometimes it skips a generation--some times two--but generally we are wearing the old gentleman's suit of clothes cut down to fit our small bodies, making believe all the time that they are our very own, unconscious of the discerning eyes who recognize their cut and origin.
Nothing tangible, it is safe to say, came with Garry's share of the estate--and he got it all.