Manchurian Books

Of an evening he would wear white waistcoats and plain
gold studs. He hated diamonds. "Flashy," he said they were. "Might as
well wear--an income tax-receipt. All very well for Park Lane. Unsold
stock. Not my style. Sober financier, George."
So much for his visible presence. For a time it was very familiar to
the world, for at the crest of the boom he allowed quite a number
of photographs and at least one pencil sketch to be published in the
sixpenny papers.
His voice declined during those years from his early tenor to a flat
rich quality of sound that my knowledge of music is inadequate to
describe. His Zzz-ing inrush of air became less frequent as he ripened,
but returned in moments of excitement. Throughout his career, in spite
of his increasing and at last astounding opulence, his more intimate
habits remained as simple as they had been at Wimblehurst. He would
never avail himself of the services of a valet; at the very climax of
his greatness his trousers were folded by a housemaid and his shoulders
brushed as he left his house or hotel.


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