I began to wonder if money was the only thing that counted, and then—a thousand times no. I realised that money was the only thing that counted in the world of snobs—but did the world of snobs count at all?
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?’