called him _gentleman_.

The hundreds who drank his wine and trifled with his sweets called him
gentleman, and hundreds more were ready to go down on their knees to his
own flesh and blood. Now was the time to enjoy, now the day of
happiness. Money was a drug; in his abundance, he could never want. He
had love, grandeur, troops of friends; _now_ he would live a monarch.
Flushed with victory, his eyes blazed, his voice rang clear and loud in
its exultation, and his lank form swelled with defiance. Springing to
his feet, and clutching up a decanter, he waved it wildly around his
head, and, challenging God or man to mar such peace, shivered it on the
floor.

Wonder-stricken at the intensity of his vulgarity, and shocked at the
sacrilege, I left; and from that moment Hardy Gripstone became a study.
Every step in his tortuous course, every phase of his ostentation, every
enormity on good taste, was followed with ceaseless vigilance. Excesses
that would have startled the most thoughtless were pursued with restless
activity; absurdities that drew forth a shout of ridicule were committed
with provoking good humor. No freak seemed exuberant, no folly
preposterous, no extremity extravagance. The joy of paternity, sinking
deep into his nature, made every peculiarity more glaringly apparent.
Money had been his idol, its accumulation the summit of his ambition;
its reckless sacrifice in his daughter's honor appeared the only
adequate expression of his love. The intervals of his devotion were
passed in idle boasting, and to me he detailed every incident. There was
something really touching in the abject way in which he mentioned each
trifle concerning her. Little circumstances connected with her daily
life were described as one would describe the traits of some rare
animal. His career of degradation seemed to have blunted every idea of