“I’m glad to hear you talk in that way, Jack,” said Mrs. Ralston. “It’s just my feeling. But it’s not everybody who thinks so. Most men—well, you know!”
“I think you’re mistaken there, mother,” answered Ralston. “I’m talking of private individuals, of course—not of men who are in big things, like railways, or banks—but just private persons who want to live on their income and enjoy themselves, and who haven’t enormous families, of course. No reasonable being can spend more than five hundred thousand a year without trouble—at least, I don’t think so. Uncle Robert didn’t actually spend three hundred thousand, I’ve heard it said. He cared for nothing but white velvet and horses—of all things to go together! Of course he gave away a million a year or so. But that doesn’t count as expenses. All the rest just rolled up, and he had to spend hours and hours every day in taking care of it. Now, I just ask you, what possible satisfaction can there be in that? And everybody thinks just the same who’s not a born idiot—or a financier. Now Bright—he’s different. He’s a partner in Beman’s and finance amuses him. He’d like to be the Astors and the Vanderbilts and the Rothschilds and all the rest of them, rolled into one. He’d like to ride Wall Street like a pony and direct millions, as he owns cattle out in the Nacimiento Valley. I wouldn’t, for my part. Twenty thousand a year has always seemed wealth to me, though most people one knows say one can’t more than live on it. Did you see Katharine, mother?”
“Of course. We had a long talk.”
“You didn’t tell her anything, I suppose? I mean, what we were talking about last night?”
“No. I thought you’d rather tell her that you’d told me. Besides—just now! But she can’t stay there, Jack. It’s rather a ghastly situation—alone in the house with the dead man, and only the servants. That nurse has stayed, though, to take care of her arm. But it’s grim—all the shades down, and every one talking in whispers. She was in one of the back rooms, so that she could have the window open.”
“Oh—she was up, then, was she? Dressed, and all that?”
“Yes—it’s the small bone of the arm. She won’t have to stay in bed. You can go and see her if you like. That is, if she’s still there. I advised her to go and stay with the Crowdies. She looked at me as though she wondered whether I knew anything. I suppose she expected that I’d advise her to go home. But that’s impossible.”
“Of course—but she hates Crowdie. We all do, for that matter. I don’t believe she’ll go. Didn’t she say?”
“No. Why do we all hate Crowdie? We do—it’s quite true. By the bye, he’s distinguished himself to-day. You know that picture of Katharine?”
“Yes—he gave it to poor uncle Robert only yesterday.”