“Sure!” said the other guests.
They were mostly business men, well-to-do, but not of the “millionaire” class, with here and there a writing-man, an artist and, as I remember, a clergyman.
“I am going to be a commercial traveller in charity,” said the little doctor. “I am going across the frontiers to collect clients for an international society of goodwill. I propose to establish a branch at this table.”
The suggestion was received with laughter by some of the men, but, as I saw, with gravity by others.
“What would be the responsibilities, doctor. Do you want money?”
This was from the manager of an American railroad.
“We shall want a bit,” said the doctor. “Not much. Enough for stamps and occasional booklets and typewriting. The chief responsibility would be to spot lies leading to national antagonism, and to kill them by exposure to cold truth; also, to put in friendly words, privately and publicly, on behalf of human kindness across the barriers of hate and malignity. Any names for the New York branch?”
The doctor took down twelve names, pledged solemnly to his programmes....
I remembered that scene in New York when I stood with the little man in Susy Whincop’s drawing-room.
“What about this crowd?” I asked.