"I mean that certainly in this race the weakest go to the wall. We Ganos can't compete."
"I wouldn't if I were Hercules. I loathe competition."
"Exactly—exactly. It's the very cry of the unfit."
"I deny it. It's the cry of the man willing to work without ignoble spurring, who doesn't want his comrades' disaster to sweeten victory, who wants to be fortunate, as you say, without blood-guiltiness."
"When that sentiment comes of strength, my friend, it means one thing; when it comes of weakness, it means another. There's hard fighting ahead, and Hercules will be to the fore. He'll be needed. The Ganos will be occupied in hating competition."
Ethan gave vent to a sound of stifled indignation. Val watched him with suspended breath. His uncle watched him calmly, and then he said:
"A Gano can inherit money. I doubt if he can make it. I doubt if he can even keep it. I doubt if he can lose it like a man."
Ethan winced, recalling the days of the lost allowance, and his impotent railing at destiny while he starved in the streets of Paris.
"There isn't the shadow of a doubt what the end of our family history will be," the hoarse voice ended. "Those of us who aren't ground under the heel of poverty will be snuffed out by disease."