“If it’s damned rotten sentiment you’re after,” he exclaimed, “well you can take my word for it that doesn’t pay either!”
Ruth looked up at him as he stood over her, a very wrathfully indignant immaculate, pale yellow pig indeed. She thought of his millions, and the power they wielded and then of the power they might wield if backed by any imagination.
“Mr. Pithey,” she said, and her voice was very low, and it had in it the sound of many waters which had gone over her soul, “I have seen our dead men lie in rows, many hundreds, through the dark night, waiting till the dawn for burial; they did not ask if it paid.”
Mr. Pithey shuffled with his big feet in the grass. “That’s different,” he said, but his little sharp eyes fell. “I should have gone myself, but my business was of national importance, as of course you know. Yes, that’s different. That’s different.” He seemed to find satisfaction in the words. He eyed Ruth again with equanimity. “Of course you ladies don’t understand, but you can’t bring sentiment into business.”
He puffed himself out. Again the phrase pleased.
Ruth rose to her feet. Even to her broad charity he had become oppressively obnoxious.
“How much did you offer me for Thorpe?” she asked suddenly.
Mr. Pithey’s eyes snapped. “Twenty-five per cent. on your money,” he said, “or I might even go a bit higher as you’re a lady.”
Ruth tossed Bertram Aurelius over her shoulder, laughing.
“Do you know what has made Thorpe the gem it is?” she asked. “Why, sentiment! Unless you have some to spend on it, it wouldn’t pay you to buy.”