"I'm sorry to say I'm Harvard, Mr. Rutgers," said Mr. Gwathmey, contritely. "But don't you think it would be a little gruesome for a desk ornament?"
"Not at all. The Egyptians used to bring in a skeleton at their feasts so that the timid guests should cease to fear dyspepsia. And the Memento Mori of later centuries had its raison d'être. I have a Byzantine ivory carving of a skull that is a gem. Holbein's 'Dance of Death' is not inartistic. It is up to you people to keep my skull from being repulsive. I wish to get something that will drive home the fact to us careless Americans that the richest is no better than the poorest. For we are not!" H. R. said this decisively. When the aristocrat tells you that you and he are not a bit better than the proletariat, what you understand him to say is that you also are an aristocrat. A democratic aristocracy is invincible.
"No," agreed Mr. Gwathmey, proudly, "we are not!"
"Let me have a sketch as soon as possible. It is to raise funds for our superannuated sandwiches."
Mr. Gwathmey saw no humor in either the intention or the phrase. As an alert business man who studied the psychology of customers, he knew that society leaders had advocated the cause of the shirtwaist workers and of certain educational movies—especially society leaders who had reached the age when their looks and their pearls no longer entitled them to the pictorial supplements. How else could they stay in the newspapers except by indignation over the wrongs of social inferiors? By espousing the cause of the lower classes, the latter also remained lower.
Mr. Gwathmey smiled tolerantly and nodded. Then he looked dreamy and murmured: "I see! I see exactly what you want: a skeleton carrying a coffin as sandwich-boards. The Ultimate Sandwich."
He saw it in the air, two feet from the tip of his nose; he was a creative artist. Then he became a salesman.
"We can submit designs to you, Mr. Rutgers—"
"To-day?"
"Oh, gracious, no! We couldn't—"