Becky had given him the first to prevent the family disgrace of the spectacle of his promenades with the second.

But he would not carry the new one on week-days because it was too good.

And on Sabbaths it is a sin to carry any umbrella.

So Becky's self-sacrifice was vain, and her umbrella stood in the corner, a standing gratification to the proud possessor.
Kosminski had had a hard fight for his substance, and was not given to waste.

He was a tall, harsh-looking man of fifty, with grizzled hair, to whom life meant work, and work meant money, and money meant savings.