“My dear Anthony,” answered Lord Ferriby, turning over his papers with
a preoccupied air, as if the question under discussion only called for
a small share of his attention—“my dear Anthony, the money was
subscribed for the amelioration of the lot of the malgamite workers. We
have not only ameliorated their lot, but we have elevated them morally
and physically. We have far exceeded our promises, and the subscribers,
who, after all, take a small interest in the matter, have every reason
to be satisfied that their money has been applied to the purpose for
which they intended it. They were kind enough to intrust us with the
financial arrangements. The concern is a private one, and it is the
business of no one—not even of the Times—to inquire into the method
which we think well to adopt for the administration of the Malgamite
Fund. If the subscribers had no confidence in us, they surely would not
have given the management unreservedly into our hands.” Lord Ferriby
spread out the limbs in question with an easy laugh. Has not a greater
than any of us said that a man “may smile, and smile, and be a
villain”? A silence followed, which was almost, but not quite, broken
by the major, who took his glass from his eye, examined it very
carefully, as if wondering how it had been made, and, replacing it with
a deep sigh, sat staring at the opposite wall.
“Then you are not disposed to withdraw your name from the concern?” asked Cornish.
“Most certainly not, my dear Anthony. What have the malgamiters done that I should, so to speak, abandon them at the first difficulty which has presented itself?”
“And what about the profits?” inquired Cornish, bluntly.
“Mr. Roden is our paid secretary. He understands the financial situation, which is rather a complicated one. We may, I think, leave such details to him. And if I may suggest it (I may perhaps rightly lay claim to a somewhat larger experience in charitable finances than either of you), I should recommend a strict reticence on this matter. We are not called upon to answer idle questions, I think. And if—well—if the labourer is found worthy of his hire ... buy yourself a new hat, my dear Anthony. Buy yourself a new hat.”
Cornish rose, and looked at his watch. “I wonder if Joan will give us a cup of tea,” he said. “We might, at all events, go up and try.”
“Certainly—certainly. And I will follow when I have finished my work. And do not give the matter another thought—either of you—eh!”
“He's been got at,” said Major White to his companion as they walked upstairs together, as if Lord Ferriby were a jockey or some common person of that sort.