David Brooks in an introduction to Anthony Trollope's classic Victorian novel:
Everybody loves this guy in public and hates him in private. He's got a big head and a booming voice and his conversation, such as it is, never strays too far from himself and his own epic accomplishments. Nobody's even quite sure where all the money came from. Some gossip that he made his dough in Internet porn or that he sells weapons or, worst of all, trades tobacco. But still everybody comes. The religious leaders are in a tizzy to know what religion he is, imagining all the bounty he could cast down on their worthy causes. The rich old folks who sit on the museum boards come pay homage to him, and they never leave his office empty-handed. He must love culture because he's willing to throw twenty-five-thousand-dollar checks at Matisse shows or Mozart festivals or Postmodern performance art. So when he walks into a room he sees a smile on every face, and after he leaves it there's nasty gossip on every tongue.
If you take this situation and move it back a century or so, you've got the essential setting for The Way We Live Now.
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