Even Charles took, from then on, a fresh interest in the frail, scared figure in that bed. From time to time people have genuinely believed that money ‘doesn’t matter’, ‘isn’t everything’, and so forth, but no one has ever failed, on being told ‘Mr. X is a millionaire’ to look at him with keen interest, keener than if they had been told ‘Mr. X is a veterinary surgeon’, or ‘Mr. X has an interesting hobby: he carves chessmen’. And yet the result of his observation was, for some time, mere bewilderment; it revealed no extraordinary or compelling qualities in Mr. Braceweight. He seemed to have no personality at all, even allowing for the fact that the obvious outward trappings by which a man advertises his personality—clothes, possessions, pursuits—were not available to him as he lay helpless in bed. He was obviously afraid of his operation: he was having his tonsils out, which is a severe operation for an ageing man; but even his fear did not make itself felt in any marked way. It was restrained, not by courage, but the lack of any equipment for making itself significant or noticeable. Afterwards his relief was the same, obviously and genuinely there, but flavourless and only faintly apparent.