A little while we talked formally, and with some constraint all round; then, as the dinner had been waiting us, and was now served, we proceeded to the dining-room.  I did not feel honored by the really sumptuous meal the Paysons had provided for their old friend; because it was clearly to be seen that no honor was intended.  The honor was all for themselves.  The ladies had not adorned their persons, nor provided their dinner, to give me welcome and pleasure, but to exhibit to the eyes of their guest, their wealth, luxury, and social importance.  If I had failed to perceive this, the conversation of the Paysons would have made it plain, for it was of style and elegance in house-keeping and dress—­of the ornamental in all its varieties; and in no case of the truly domestic and useful.  Once or twice I referred to the Wightmans; but the ladies knew nothing of them, and seemed almost to have forgotten that such persons ever lived.

It did not take long to discover that, with all the luxury by which my friends were surrounded, they were far from being happy.  Mrs. Payson and her daughters, had, I could see, become envious as well as proud.  They wanted a larger house, and more costly furniture in order to make as imposing an appearance as some others whom they did not consider half as good as themselves.  To all they said on this subject, I noticed that Payson himself maintained, for the most part, a half-moody silence.  It was, clearly enough, unpleasant to him.

“My wife and daughters think I am made of money,” said he, once, half laughing.  “But if they knew how hard it was to get hold of, sometimes, they would be less free in spending.  I tell them I am a poor man, comparatively speaking; but I might as well talk to the wind.”

“Just as well,” replied his wife, forcing an incredulous laugh; “why will you use such language?  A poor man!”

“He that wants what he is not able to buy, is a poor man, if I understand the meaning of the term,” said Payson, with some feeling.  “And he who lives beyond his income, as a good many of our acquaintances do to my certain knowledge, is poorer still.”

“Now don’t get to riding that hobby, Mr. Payson,” broke in my friend’s wife, deprecatingly—­“don’t, if you please.  In the first place, it’s hardly polite, and, in the second place, it is by no means agreeable.  Don’t mind him”—­and the lady turned to me gaily—­“he gets in these moods sometimes.”

I was not surprised at this after what I had witnessed, about his house.  Put the scenes and circumstances together, and how could it well be otherwise?  My friend, thus re-acted upon, ventured no further remark on a subject that was so disagreeable to his family.  But while they talked of style and fashion, he sat silent, and to my mind oppressed with no very pleasant thoughts.  After the ladies had retired, he said, with considerable feeling—­