"A philanthropist? The modern form of religious enthusiasm—deeds, not words; feeding the hungry instead of saying prayers. A holy materialism."
How soon, Mr. Welbourne reflected, misfortune breeds cynicism. It was hardly forty-eight hours since calamity at the tables had befallen this young woman, and she could talk like this. "Should you be in want of money," he continued, "you have merely to name the sum to our ascetic friend, and it is forthcoming. People often want money in these regions, because everybody here is rich. It is only the rich who want money."
"Really? Then what on earth do the poor want?"
"Oh, lots of things—food, fire, friends, advice, sympathy, clothes, work, but money never."
"Really? Then how very, very rich I must be."
"Undoubtedly you are. But here comes our friend."
They had to stand in the narrow path to let the reverend man pass on his pious way, and, the déjeuner bell having just left off sounding, followed him into the house very shortly after, but at too small a distance to permit further discussion of his virtues—a point much on Mr. Welbourne's conscience at the time, but unfortunately soon driven from his memory by after-events.
The benefactor of his species in the meantime, unconscious of the veneration he inspired, took his place at a small solitary table in the background, silent and, after the first few moments of curiosity his presence excited, unnoticed, and presumably absorbed in schemes for the amelioration of mankind. With the déjeuner he vanished, but was again discovered at his secluded table at dinner, just as if he had never moved, and so for several days.
Rumour spoke of a motor-car waiting daily at the foot of the ridge, and bearing him away in a cloud of dust and unpleasant smell. M. Bontemps hinted that he came up to Les Oliviers for a few days' rest, much to Mrs. Allonby's surprise. She had had no idea that the practice of beneficence was so fatiguing.
People often came up to the little house on the ridge for rest and quiet, out of the closer air of the town, out of the racket and turmoil of the huge and hideous barrack hotels, that desolated the face of the country for many a mile round, even drawing great splotches of aggressive ugliness across the lovely wooded slopes of the mountains, so that no eye could possibly escape the sight of them. And after a brief sojourn, refreshed and soothed to the point of boredom, they returned with renewed zest to the horrors of civilization and excessive wealth in the barracks.