"They are both dead, are they not?" she asked, softly.
"Many years ago," he answered.
Lady Caroom and Lord Arranmore came in together. A certain unusual seriousness in Sybil's face was manifest.
"You two do not seem to have been amusing yourselves," Lady Caroom remarked, giving her hand to Brooks.
"Mr. Brooks has been answering some of my questions about the poor people," Sybil answered, "and it is not an amusing subject."
Lord Arranmore laughed lightly, and there was a touch of scorn in the slight curve of his fine lips and his raised eyebrows. He stood away from the shaded lamplight before a great open fire of cedar logs, and the red glow falling fitfully upon his face seemed to Brooks, watching him with more than usual closeness, to give him something of a Mephistopheles aspect. His evening clothes hung with more than ordinary precision about his long slim body, his black tie and black pearl stud supplied the touch of sombreness so aptly in keeping with the mirthless, bitter smile which still parted his lips.
"You must not take Mr. Brooks too seriously on the subject of the poor people," he said, the mockery of his smile well matched in his tone. "Brooks is an enthusiast—one, I am afraid, of those misguided people who have barred the way to progress for centuries. If only they could be converted!"
Lady Caroom sighed.
"Oh, dear, how enigmatic!" she exclaimed. "Do be a little more explicit."
"Dear lady," he continued, turning to her, "it is not worth while. Yet I sometimes wonder whether people realize how much harm this hysterical philanthropy—this purely sentimental faddism, does; how it retards the natural advance of civilization, throws dust in people's eyes, salves the easy conscience of the rich man, who bargains for immortality with a few strokes of the pen, and finds mischievous occupation for a good many weak minds and parasitical females. Believe me, that all personal charity is a mistake. It is a good deal worse than that. It is a crime."