He said nothing, feeling uneasy and uncertain of his ground. She waited a moment and then went on:
“There are things I should like to do if I were good, awfully good. I should like to go about among the poor with little baskets of jelly, and bottles of home-made currant wine, and some real home-made bread of my own baking, and bestow them upon the worthy poor; but I never could make up my mind to do it. I think the idea of giving tickets to tramps, so they may go to the charity society office for inspection before they are given a chance to saw a cord or two of wood before breakfast, is hideously un-Christian. I don’t like your idea of making a business of philanthropy.”
“It isn’t my idea,” said Leighton. “Please don’t identify me with all that you don’t like about organized charities.”
“No; I shan’t; but the idea suggested itself that we ought to do better for the tramps than that. Just imagine, Mr. Leighton, how you would feel if you rang a door-bell,—suppose you were to ring ours!—and some one would thrust a ticket through a crack and beg you to run along and pass an examination somewhere before you could hope for a crust of bread!”
Leighton laughed.
“I think in your case I should keep the ticket as a souvenir.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be my case; it would be the maid’s. She keeps the tickets.”
“So that to get a dime I should have to see you.”
“I’m afraid so; and I should have to ask you whether you intended to buy bread or drink with it. They always do,—the scientific philanthropists. Then they can report their observations to some dreary headquarters somewhere for tabulation. I think I should always tell my tramps to buy good whisky; they say it’s so much more wholesome than bad bread!”
“I’ve been told so, too, if you are appealing to me!”