"Why did you not give me that message before?"

"Because Mr. Eustace said I was not to give it unless you asked
after him."

"Very good. Johnson!"

"Yes, Sir."

"You will give orders that Mr. Eustace's name is not to be mentioned in
this house again. Any servant mentioning Mr. Eustace's name will be
dismissed."

"Very good, Sir"; and Johnson went.

Mr. Meeson gazed round him. He looked at the long array of glass and
silver, at the spotless napery and costly flowers. He looked at the walls
hung with works of art, which, whatever else they might be, were at least
expensive; at the mirrors and the soft wax-lights; at the marble
mantelpieces and the bright warm fires (for it was November); at the rich
wall paper and the soft, deep-hued carpet; and reflected that they were
all his. And then he sighed, and his coarse, heavy face sank in and grew
sad. Of what use was this last extremity of luxury to him? He had nobody
to leave it to, and to speak the truth, it gave him but little pleasure.
Such pleasure as he had in life was derived from making money, not from
spending it. The only times when he was really happy were when he was in
his counting house directing the enterprises of his vast establishment,
and adding sovereign by sovereign to his enormous accumulations. That had
been his one joy for forty years, and it was still his joy.