It was too terrible to even contemplate, this unmerited popularity of his! If only one of them had been honest enough to make fun of his ears, or to snicker when he became impassioned, or to smile contemptuously from her superior height when he asked her to dance,--if only one of them had turned her back upon him, then he would have grasped the unwelcome truth about himself.

But, now that he thought of it, not one of them had ever turned a deaf ear to his cajoleries, not one had failed to respond to his blandishments, not one had been sincere enough to frown upon him when he tried to be witty.

And that brought him to another sickening standstill: was he as bright and clever and witty as people made him out to be?
Wasn't he a dreadful bore, a blithering ass, after all?
He felt himself turning cold to the marrow as he thought of the real value that people placed upon him.

He even tried to recall a single thing that he had ever said that he could now, in sober judgment, regard as bright or even fairly clever.

He couldn't, so then, after all, it was quite clear that he was tolerated because he had nothing but money.
Just as he was about to retire from his club where he had gone for solace, an inspiration was born.