"Of course the good you can do with them must be their chief charm to you——" began the Secretary, sententiously.
The answer surprised him.
"Not at all. On the contrary, my charities, if they are charities, are of a very selfish sort. I suppose you've some kind of amusement which you turn to in your hours for relaxation? Golf, tennis, hunting, what not. These little entertainments are—mine. I thoroughly enjoy them. The fact is, I'm passionately fond of children, and not having any of my own, I've adopted everybody else's for the time being. But it's selfish, purely selfish. Some benighted idiots call me a philanthropist—I'd like to have them come pressing their claims for lazy heathen in my bank parlour, they'd find out what sort of business man I was." And this queer specimen doubled up his fists, and broke into a roar of laughter, which was too hearty to have been assumed. "I'll tell you what it is," he continued, "if it wasn't for our good dominie there, I'd admit to you that I hate a real professional philanthropist—ten to one he's a humbug."
The parson held up his hands, and Stanley laughed nervously—the man was actually voicing his own thoughts.
"As for charity— Bah! Charity begins at home. It doesn't go racing over the country with magic lantern shows—that's real downright, selfish egotism."
Then, evidently feeling that the conversation had proceeded far enough in this direction, he broke off suddenly, remarking:
"They tell me that you're a diplomat."
"Yes," said the Secretary. "Perhaps you know my chief?"
"I've not that honour. Indeed I've never had any dealings with your countrymen but once, and then I'd reason to regret it."
"Really? I'm sorry to hear that."