“I don’t know about that. When an asylum takes fire, the idiots haven’t the sense to get out,” observed Alexander Junior, grimly.
“Nonsense! Nonsense, Alexander!” The old man shook his head. “Idiots are just as—well, not quite as sensible as other people,—that would be an exaggeration—but they’re not all so stupid, by any means.”
“No—so I’ve heard,” said Crowdie, gravely.
“So stupid as what, Mr. Crowdie?” asked Katharine, turning on him rather abruptly.
“As others, Miss Lauderdale—as me, for instance,” he answered, without hesitation. “Probably we both meant—Mr. Lauderdale and I—that all idiots are not so stupid as the worst cases, which are the ones most people think of when idiots are mentioned.”
“Exactly. You put it very well.” The old philanthropist looked pleased at the interruption. “And I repeat that I think Mr. Crowdie’s idea of insuring them is very good. Every time one dies,—they do die, poor things,—you get a sum of money. Excellent, very excellent!”
His ideas of business transactions had always been hazy in the extreme, and his son proceeded to set him right.
“It couldn’t possibly be of any advantage unless you had capital to invest and insured your own idiots,” said Alexander Junior. “And that would just amount to making a savings bank on your own account, and saving so much a year out of your expenses for each idiot. You could invest the savings, and the interest would be all you could possibly make. It’s not as though the idiots’ families paid the dues and made over the policies to you. There would be money in that, I admit. You might try it. There might be a streak of idiocy in the other members of the patient’s family which would make them agree to it.”
The old man’s gentle eyes suddenly lighted up with ill temper.
“You’re laughing at me, Alexander,” he said, in a louder voice. “You’re laughing at me!”