He flicked a finger at his reflection in a mirror.

"That for you!" he said defiantly; "at least I can write; I can write at last!" The manuscript lay almost finished at the bottom of his trunk.

It could not easily have been stolen for one hour without his knowing.
Just when he was about to start on a walk with one of the ladies, he would run upstairs to make sure that it was still there; he made sure by feeling, and would turn again at the door to make sure by looking.
Miser never listened to the crispness of bank-notes with more avidity; woman never spent more time in shutting and opening her jewel-box.
"I can write at last!" He knew that, comparatively speaking, he had never been able to write before.

He remembered the fuss that had been made about his former books.

"Pooh!" he said, addressing them contemptuously.
Once more he drew his beloved manuscript from its hiding-place.