“Godfather too?”
“I've not thought.... I suppose so. Or her own.”
Prothero meditated.
“THIS life,” he said at last, “this large expensiveness—...”
He left his criticism unfinished.
“I agree. It suits my mother somehow. I can't understand her living in any other way. But—for me....”
“What can one do with several thousands a year?”
Prothero's interest in this question presently swamped his petty personal resentments. “I suppose,” he said, “one might have rather a lark with money like that. One would be free to go anywhere. To set all sorts of things going.... It's clear you can't sell all you have and give it to the poor. That is pauperization nowadays. You might run a tremendously revolutionary paper. A real upsetting paper. How many thousands is it?”
“I don't know. SOME.”
Prothero's interest was growing as he faced the possibilities.