The philanthropist nodded.
“I am trying to follow a plan,” he said, a slightly fanatical glaze coming into his eyes. “I’ll admit that the several rooming-houses I own in Chicago aren’t in the same class as the Palmer House, but I think all told, I have more guests in my various establishments than any single Chicago hotel. The greatest good for the greatest number of the needy automatically means that one must supply bread, not éclairs.”
“Also,” said the Saint, holding his gaze directly, “the dispenser of bread can hardly stand by while some racketeer taxes the needy for the privilege of receiving it.”
“I can only work within my limitations and in my own way—”
Mrs Wingate was off on a tangent, figuratively clutching Elliott’s coat-tails and riding along.
“There must be roses, too,” she remarked, and everyone looked at her blankly.
Finally Simon said, “ Chacun à son goût ” in such a significant manner that Mrs Wingate nodded several times with intense solemnity, as if she had heard the Pope affirm a historic dogma.
“Man does not live by bread alone,” she said. “Stephen is concerned with the bodies of the poor. My interest is in their souls. The unfortunates do have souls, you know. I try to bring something more than bread into their dark, narrow lives. You should see... Stephen! Do you think—”
“What, Laura?”
“I’m sure you’d be willing to help us, Mr Templar. You’re notorious for your charities—”