"You think I've never thought of that?" he asked quizzically.
"Have you?"
"Indeed, yes. All my life, I guess. But am I suddenly made rich—or born with it?"
"Suddenly? No. You've had it always—and your father had it before you."
"Then I'd build fine homes and have many servants. I'd have automobiles and yachts and pictures and first editions. I'd contribute to political campaign funds, and give scholarships to my college, and build libraries and hospitals, and install rest rooms and gymnasiums and summer camps in my stores and factories. I'd be generous and upright, and when I died I would be very much respected and not a little loved."
There was an indefinable feeling of banter in his tone, which she found hard to explain. But she went on, hoping that he would explain it himself.
"And if it came to you suddenly?"
"I wouldn't give a cent to charity nor to hospitals nor libraries. And I'd lose all my friends, and probably be shot like a mad dog."
She was stunned with the vehemence of his curious words. But before she could speak he added suddenly, even more fervently.
"I'd live and die hated by those closest to me. But I'd buy the greatest jewel in the world, and I'd leave it to those who wouldn't possibly appreciate it."