He had gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; he had built no gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries out of these "immense sums." He had not even a home.

He had gone into these rooms in an hotel and had stuck there for years, giving no doubt perfect satisfaction to the management.

They had twice raised his rent to show I suppose their high sense of his distinguished patronage.

He had bought for himself out of all the wealth streaming through his fingers neither adulation nor love, neither splendour nor comfort.

There was something perfect in his consistent mediocrity.