"As you like. Any one else would call me mercenary."
He's crazy, Cassy uncomfortably reflected. What shall I do?
Modestly the novelist motioned. "Ten Eyck Jones now! It doesn't rhyme with Victor Hugo or even with Andrew Carnegie, but it has a lilt. It might be worse."
"What are you talking about?" Cassy, with increasing discomfort, put in.
"There is a little thing that turns men into flint and women into putty. That's what I am talking about. I am talking money."
"Thank you. The subject does not interest me."
"Ah, but you are evolved! Would that the butcher were! We all have to consider his incapacities and money helps us. I have an idea that your dear departed may have left you a trifle."
"Really, Mr. Jones, you are talking nonsense."
"It is a specialty of mine."
"Besides, it is impossible."