“Which was Stornaway’s condition,” he reminded me.
And, in O’Rane’s hands, it was a condition that we could not fulfil. When Barbara spoke of the incurable cripples left by the war, he enquired why humanity should be relieved of its obligations. When I talked, as so often before I had talked with Deryk Lancing, of universities and institutions for research, of libraries and museums, of travelling fellowships and exploration funds, of subsidized opera and national newspapers, of model cities and a country made perfect, he applauded my enthusiasm and asked what I was doing to give it effect.
“I do my modest share,” I said.
“And, if I take that responsibility off your shoulders, you’ll only have more money to . . . waste on yourself.”
I cannot recall that the tone or choice of language was more vigorous than I had long been accustomed to hearing from O’Rane. Certainly I should have taken up the challenge without concern, if Sonia had not rushed superfluously to my assistance. Her indignation, however, in demanding why personal expenditure should be called waste, warned me against taking sides in a family quarrel.
“David’s impossible about money!,” she cried. “So long as I have one crust of bread, one dress that would disgrace a scarecrow . . .”
“If this is how the poor live, let’s join them!,” interposed Barbara pacifically.
In spite of herself, Sonia laughed as she saw us admiring her frock. The house was unpretentious, but it was enviably comfortable. I never wish to be given better food or wine. And, on a lower plane of morality, whatever she lacked from her husband was made up by the munificence of her friends.
“It’s so difficult, when every one thinks you’re rich . . .” she began.
“But it isn’t our money,” O’Rane objected.