"There might be some hope for a _parvenu_, if he could live long enough to wear the edge off his wealth," said one of the clubmen, after dining for the first time in Mortimer Gardens; "but the modern span of life does not give a millionaire time to overcome the appalling freshness of his possessions. He is like a working man in his Sunday clothes. The Sunday clothes are always new. In such a house as this you see the stamp of the _nouveau riche_ on every object, from the virgin gilding on the ceilings to the untarnished lacquer on the letter weights. Show me a man's carpets, and I will tell you the length of his pedigree. The _vieille roche_ rarely indulges in fresh upholstery. At Lord Scamander's you can poke your cane through the carpet; and if any one attempted to draw the window-curtains, they would crumble into ashes, like the draperies of a house in Pompeii. Old Lady Teucer will have an action for damages brought against her some day, if she doesn't take up her stair-carpets; for one runs the risk of breaking one's neck every time one calls on her. If I were a millionaire, I would watch the sales at Christie's, and buy up all the dilapidated buhl cabinets and rotten tapestry, in order that I might swear they had belonged to my great-grandfather. I wouldn't have an ounce of plate on my table of a later date than the reign of Queen Anne, or a sound carpet on my floors." Mr. Lobyer was supremely indifferent as to what his guests might please to say or to think about him. In London, as in Yorkshire, the cares of the speculator had possession of him. That undying worm which torments the rich man, who never knows when he has made enough money, and is always trying by every tortuous and darksome process to make more, had made its home in the breast of Mr. Lobyer; and for such a man the frivolous pleasures which amuse ordinary people have very little attraction. In London as in Yorkshire, Mr. Lobyer had amusements of his own and companions of his own, and left his wife to amuse herself after her own fashion, and amongst whatever acquaintance she might choose for herself. For this helpless young creature--so lonely amidst so much splendour, so friendless amidst so many friends--Cecil felt unbounded compassion. "But what am I, that I should be any comfort or protection to her?" the barrister's wife thought sadly. "Who could be weaker than I was at the first sound of _his_ voice? Who could cling more wickedly to the memory of the past than I have done since I have seen him?"