"Look here," he exclaimed. "I don't want thanks. You know what my life has been—I told you the story often enough when I was lying sick and you were waiting on me like an angel—oh, I mean it," he added, as she looked up. "Just let me say what I've got to say. When you came back here, and I was by myself again, I began to think. Somehow the old views didn't seem quite to fit together. There was something wrong somewhere and I reckon that somewhere was me. I've put a wrong twist on things. It never struck me there was more than one woman in the world who could do anything to make me contented. So I set out to make money. I made it, made it by the ton. And now I've got it what's the good of it to me?"
"There is no limit to the good it may be if it is properly applied, Mr. Dudgeon."
"Where will it do good?" he exclaimed. "That's just what I want to know. Tell me."
"There are hospitals," she said. "And schools. You might found scholarships for poor students to——"
"And chapels and missions and dogs' homes—go on, trot out the whole list," he interrupted. "None of them will ever get a pennypiece out of me. More than half the money given to them goes to keep a lot of lazy, patronising officials in luxury—I know—I've come in contact with them when they have been cadging after me for subscriptions. They cringe till they find out there's nothing for them, and then they snarl. I've no time for that sort of people, no time nor money either."
"Then I hardly know what to suggest," she said, "unless——"
"Unless what?"
"You helped Mrs. O'Guire and her children, if she has any."
His mouth went into its old hard lines, and he sat silent for a time.
"It's no good talking about that," he said presently. "The best thing I can do for them is not to think about them—I'd be after them again if I do—if I could find them. Help them? No. I'd rather give the money to the Government to build gaols. Can't you think of anything else?"