It is undeniable that, as the years advanced, Mr.
Gilfil became, as Mr.Hackit observed, more and more 'close-fisted', though the growing propensity showed itself rather in the parsimony of his personal habits, than in withholding help from the needy.

He was saving--so he represented the matter to himself--for a nephew, the only son of a sister who had been the dearest object, all but one, in his life.

'The lad,' he thought, 'will have a nice little fortune to begin life with, and will bring his pretty young wife some day to see the spot where his old uncle lies.

It will perhaps be all the better for his hearth that mine was lonely.' Mr.Gilfil was a bachelor, then?
That is the conclusion to which you would probably have come if you had entered his sitting-room, where the bare tables, the large old-fashioned horse-hair chairs, and the threadbare Turkey carpet perpetually fumigated with tobacco, seemed to tell a story of wifeless existence that was contradicted by no portrait, no piece of embroidery, no faded bit of pretty triviality, hinting of taper-fingers and small feminine ambitions.
And it was here that Mr.Gilfil passed his evenings, seldom with other society than that of Ponto, his old brown setter, who, stretched out at full length on the rug with his nose between his fore-paws, would wrinkle his brows and lift up his eyelids every now and then, to exchange a glance of mutual understanding with his master.

But there was a chamber in Shepperton Vicarage which told a different story from that bare and cheerless dining-room--a chamber never entered by any one besides Mr.
Gilfil and old Martha the housekeeper, who, with David her husband as groom and gardener, formed the Vicar's entire establishment.