"That's possible," Simon admitted imperturbably. "But there are other differences."
"Meaning what?"
"Mathematical ones. A matter of simple economy. When I collect money, unless I'm trying to put things right for someone else who's been taken for a mug, between seventy-five and ninety percent of it really does go to charity. Now suppose you collect a thousand dollars in ticket sales for one of your parties. Two hundred and fifty bucks go straight into your pocket — you work on the gross. Other organizing expenses take up at least a hundred dollars more. Advertising, prizes, decorations, publicity and what not probably cost another ten percent. Then there's the orchestra, hire of rooms and waiters and the cost of a lot of fancy food that's much too good for the people who eat it — let's say four hundred dollars. And the caterers give you a fifty-dollar cut on that. The net result is that you take in three hundred dollars and a nice big dinner, and the good cause gets maybe a hundred and fifty. In other words, every time one of your suckers buys one of your thirty-dollar tickets, to help to save fallen women or something like that, he gives you twice as much as he gives the fallen women, which might not be exactly what he had in mind. So I don't think we really are in the same class."
"You don't mean that I'm in a better class?" she protested sarcastically.
The Saint shook his head.
"Oh no," he said. "Not for a moment… But I do think that some of these differences ought to be adjusted."
Her mouth was as tight as a trap.
"And how will that be done?"
"I thought it'd be an interesting change if you practised a little charity yourself. Suppose we set a donation of fifty thousand dollars—"
"Do you really think I'd give you fifty thousand dollars?"