He interrupted with an impatient, “Didn’t I try? But it was hopeless. To succeed in this day, I’d have had to take the children away off into the woods, with the chances that even there the servants I’d be compelled to have would spoil them—would keep them reminded of the rotten snobbishness they’ve been taught.” He laughed at me with mocking irony. “You have a daughter,” said he. “What about her?”
“I was thinking of your boy,” said I.
He frowned and looked away. After a long pause—“Hopeless—hopeless,” said he. “Believe me—hopeless. The boy is like her. No, I’ll have to begin all over again.”
I gave an inquiring look.
“Marry again,” explained he. “Another sort of woman, and keep her and her children away from this world of ours. I’d like to try the experiment. But—” He laughed apologetically. “I’m afraid I love the city and its amusements too well. I’m not as determined nor as ardent as I once was. What does it matter, anyway? So long as we are comfortable and well amused, why should we bother?” After a silence, “Another mistake I made—the initial mistake—was in giving her a fortune. She is almost as well fixed as I am. Don’t make that mistake, Godfrey.”
“I’ve already done it,” said I. “And I shall never be sorry that I did. I gave my wife the first large sum I made, and I’ve added to it from time to time. I wanted her and Margot to be safe, no matter what happened to me.”
“A mistake,” he said. “A sad mistake. I know how you felt. I felt the same way. But there’s something worse than the more or less sentimental aversion to being loved and considered merely for the money they can get out of you and can’t get without you.”
“Nothing worse,” I declared.
“Yes,” he replied. “It’s worse to give a foolish woman the power to make a fool of herself, of her children, and of you.”
“That is bad, I’ll admit,” said I. “But the other is worse—at least to me.”