"Come in. Here's a thing. Tell
him--Mister--over again. Have a drink, George? No! Wise man! Liss'n."
I was always ready to listen. All sorts of financial marvels came out of
the Hardingham, more particularly during my uncle's last great flurry,
but they were nothing to the projects that passed in. It was the little
brown and gold room he sat in usually. He had had it redecorated by
Bordingly and half a dozen Sussex pictures by Webster hung about it.
Latterly he wore a velveteen jacket of a golden-brown colour in this
apartment that I think over-emphasised its esthetic intention, and he
also added some gross Chinese bronzes.
He was, on the whole, a very happy man throughout all that wildly
enterprising time. He made and, as I shall tell in its place, spent
great sums of money. He was constantly in violent motion, constantly
stimulated mentally and physically and rarely tired. About him was an
atmosphere of immense deference much of his waking life was triumphal
and all his dreams. I doubt if he had any dissatisfaction with himself
at all until the crash bore him down.
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