“No, sir; I’m in earnest,” answered the son, in his cool, metallic tones.
“Don’t the big companies insure their own ships?” asked the philanthropist. “Of course they do, and they make money by it.”
“I beg your pardon. They make nothing but the interest of what they set aside for each ship. They simply cover their losses.”
“Well, and if an idiot dies, then the asylum gets the money.”
“Yes, sir. But an idiot has no intrinsic value.”
“Why, then the asylum gets a sum of money for what was worth nothing, and it must be very profitable—much more so than insuring ships.”
“But it’s the asylum’s own money to begin with—”
“And as for your saying that an idiot has no intrinsic value, Alexander,” pursued the old man, going off on another tack, “I won’t have you say such things. I won’t listen to them. An idiot is a human being, sir, and has an immortal soul, I’d have you to know, as well as you or I. And you have the assurance to say that he has no intrinsic value! An immortal soul, made for eternal happiness or eternal suffering, and no intrinsic value! Upon my word, Alexander, you forget yourself! I should not have expected such an inhuman speech from you.”
“Is the ‘vital spark of heavenly flame’ a marketable commodity?” asked Crowdie, speaking to Katharine in a low voice.
“Idiots have souls, Mr. Crowdie,” said the philanthropist, looking straight across at him, and taking it for granted that he had said something in opposition.