"I begin to understand," he said slowly, "why you said you thought I wasn't doing my work in the world. It's true. I've been sheltered from evil. Things have been made easy for me. And you"—he burst forth admiringly—"I think you're very wonderful. Perhaps some day I can help. You'll let me help, won't you?"
"Oh, would you, Jerry?" she cried.
"I don't see any reason why I shouldn't. I shall be twenty-one in December. I can do what I please. The executors want to make me a business man—to go to board meetings and help run some companies my money is in. But I don't want to. Finance makes my head tired. I've been working at it some. Seems like awful rubbish to me. They want me to make a lot more money. I suppose I've got enough to get along on. I don't want any more than I've got. I'd much rather do something useful."
She laughed.
"Useful! I'm afraid your executors have different ideals of utility."
Jerry sighed.
"Of course, I've got to go through with the thing for awhile. But I—I'd rather give you my money to cure the plague spots."
"Not all of it, Jerry," she cried, "but would you, some of it? Just a very little?"
"Of course—as much as you like. You can do a lot more with it than I can."
In my hiding place, I didn't know whether to be alarmed or amused. She had done well. Jerry was already giving her his twenty millions. She was a capital missionary. It seemed about time I made my entrance, so I coughed, then walked through the door and faced them.