"Let 'em," said Justin bluntly. He turned to Fellowes, added, "By the way, how are you coming along with Marie's psychoanalysis?"
"These things take time," said Fellowes.
"So I understand," said Justin. Some devil prompted him to add, "I've heard that some women wear out two or three psychoanalysts in a single lifetime."
"Charles!" Marie looked warningly up from the pleats in her skirt.
"Really, Charles." Fellowes sounded hurt.
"Sorry," said Justin. He decided to jump the conversational track before there was a wreck. "Henri Dubois visited me this afternoon."
"You mean the Golden Rule fellow?" the psychiatrist inquired. "Interesting phenomenon of our times. What sort of chap is he?"
Justin thought back to the soft-spoken man who had sat in the white leather armchair on the far side of his desk, the man who had asked him for two million dollars to support his Missionist movement. He thought back to the meeting in the Garden he had attended the night before—a meeting attended by twenty thousand quiet intent hopeful people, by many thousands more who had listened via loud-speakers outside in the streets.
Henri Dubois did preach the Golden Rule, the ideals of cooperation and humanity toward one's fellows, as the world's only salvation. It wasn't quite that simple, of course—but the Golden Rule was its essence, a Golden Rule to be practiced not merely in church on Sundays but seven days a week.