He'd always been rich, in the sense that his means had
always been sufficient to his wants. He'd never in his life had an
experience that even resembled Portia's with that old unpaid grocery
bill. He'd enjoyed wearing shabby clothes, but he'd never worn them
because he could afford no better. He'd always been democratic in the
narrower social sense, but he'd never realized how easy that sort of
democracy is and how little it means to a man never associated with
persons who assert a social superiority over him. He'd always made a
point of despising luxuries, to be sure. But it hadn't been brought to
his attention at how high a level he drew the line between luxuries and
mere decent necessities.
He wasn't then, near so much of a Spartan as he thought. His long
association with the Lakes and their friends might, you'd think, have
brought him the consolatory reflection that a woman who earned even a
successful chorus-girl's wages, needn't be pitied too lamentably on the
score of poverty; that Rose could, no doubt, have afforded a better room
than that, if she'd wanted to.
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