“They don’t trouble my sleep much—not half so much as the lack of them.”
Pangbutt smiled drily:
“Well,” said he—“you confess by insinuation that it’s very pleasant to be even so discredited a thing as a millionaire?”
“I don’t know, Paul. I don’t call on ’em. When all’s said, they are no worse than the folk who do call on ’em. The rich man, too, stands before his abysses—he has his blood-curdlings like the poorest.... There are honest men and dishonest, even amongst the rich. Look at your speculative millionaire—your mighty company-promoter! He don’t sleep too well, thank God; but look at him.... To-day, society is licking his boots—licking them, Paul—for who so sublime a boot-licker as your hereditary flunkey of the Court? To-morrow—— Hang it, I’m talking like a curate.” He laughed. “I always gabble of millionaires in my sleep when the landlady is pressing for the rent.”
Pangbutt shrugged his shoulders:
“Nevertheless,” said he—“there’s something rather wonderful about a millionaire.”
“A very proper and right sentiment, Paul! Of course, a millionaire is a colossal article of commerce. Bigness appeals to the imagination. So a school-boy looks at a bishop and thinks the works of God are very wonderful.... But riches are comparative—there’s a millionaire who cannot buy a digestion. Give me a competency——”
Pangbutt’s lip curled:
“How much is a competency?” he asked.