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.