The words of Montaigne came back to me: “We commend a horse for his strength and sureness of foot and not for his rich caparison; a greyhound for his share of heels, not for his fine collar; a hawk for her wing, not for her jesses and bells. Why in like manner do we not value a man for what is properly his own? He has a great train, a beautiful palace, so much credit, so many thousand pounds a year, and all these are _about_ him, but not _in_ him.” A millionaire was one day sitting having tea with me, when I exclaimed: “I wonder what it feels like to be so rich?” He stared at me, as though puzzled that anyone should be in doubt. “Often very disagreeable,” he replied. “Why?” “Well, one never knows who are one’s friends, because of one’s money; or who would cut one to-morrow if it were lost!” Then he told me an experience which must certainly have been mortifying. “At a ball my wife and I gave recently I felt tired, and slipped down to the supper-room for a glass of champagne and a sandwich. I sat for a moment at a little table where two young men were sitting, and this is what I heard: “‘Whose house is this?’ “‘Oh, one of those beastly rich African Jews, I’m told.’ “‘Do you know them?’ “‘Lord, no! I came with Lady M——.’ “‘And I came with Lady N——. Not a bad house, though. Champagne might have been better.’ “Sick at heart, I looked at them, turned on my heel, and went upstairs. A few minutes later they followed. I was standing talking to Lady M—— as the pair sauntered up. “She caught one of them by the arm and said to him, ‘Oh, I must introduce you to Mr. X——, our host.’ “I pulled myself together. ‘Thanks, there is no need; we met in the supper-room a moment ago, and I had the pleasure of hearing his opinion of my champagne.’ And having said that, I put out my hand and hoped he was enjoying himself. You should have seen that young man’s face. “Is it pleasant to be rich? No!” He spoke so bitterly, one could not help feeling how often accumulated wealth is merely luck, when it comes from the yield of the earth or is the product of invention; but yet how often it comes through Stock-Exchange knowledge, which not infrequently is another name for organised robbery! In an earlier chapter I have alluded to my school-days at Queen’s College, Harley Street. This was the first college opened for women, and when it had been in existence fifty years (started 1848), I—as an “old girl”—volunteered to edit a booklet giving a short account of its history; and also suggested that other “old girls,” as an encouragement to the younger generation, should contribute articles describing their own particular professions, all of which were more or less the outcome of the education they received in Harley Street.